"I hid behind a mound of earth that had been dug up to make a grave for some old books, literature was the only religion her father practiced, when a book fell to the foor he kissed it, when he was done with a book, he tried to give it away to someone who would love it, and if he couldn't find a worthy recipient, he buried it, I looked for her all day but didn't see her, not in the yard, not through a window, I promised myself I would stay until I found her, but as night began to come in, I knew I had to go home. I hated myself for going, why couldn't I be the kind of person who stays? I walked back with my head down, I couldn't stop thinking about her even though I hardly knew her, I didn't know what good would come of going to see her, but I knew that I needed to be near her, it occured to me, as I walked back to her the next day with my head down, that she might not be thinking of me. The books had been buried, so this time I hid behind a group of trees, I imagined their roots wrapping around books, pulling nourishment from the pages, I imagined rings of letters in their trunks."
-Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran Foer