There has never been a time in my life—not even when I was a homeless heroin addict dossing on a friend’s floor and sleeping all day only to rise and cross town to work on winter streets as a sex worker, no, not even then, because if I hadn’t had historical fiction and cyberpunk novels to get my head out of there, I wouldn’t have survived—when I haven’t had a few books beside my bed. But it is getting ridiculous now.