Censorship ends in logical completeness when nobody is allowed to read any books except the books that nobody can read.
We may sit in our library and yet be in all quarters of the earth.
Like so many other nerdy, disaffected young people of that time, I dreamed of becoming an ‘artist’, i.e., somebody whose adult job was original and creative instead of tedious and dronelike.
That sometime human beings have to just sit in once place and, like, hurt. That you will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do. That there is a such a thing as raw, unalloyed, agendaless kindness … That there might not be angels, but there are people who might as well be. That God - unless you’re Charlton Heston, or unhinged, or both - speaks and acts entirely through the vehicle of human beings, if there is a God. That God might regard the issue of whether you believe there’s a God or not as fairly low on his/her/its list of things s/he/it’s interested in re you.
There is something in us, as storytellers and as listeners to stories, that demands the redemptive act, that demands that what falls at least be offered the chance to be restored. The reader of today looks for this motion, and rightly so, but what he has forgotten is the cost of it. His sense of evil is diluted or lacking altogether, and so he has forgotten the price of restoration. When he reads a novel, he wants either his sense tormented or his spirits raised. He wants to be transported, instantly, either to mock damnation or a mock innocence.