I read books, listen to books, pile up books, buy books, lose books, lend books, give books, and love to get books.
But I don’t make books.
(i don’t “make book” either, which is the slang term by grandmother used back in the forties, when she would send me down the street to the bar where I would bet her weekly “10 cents, combination” on the numbers.)
Last month, a dear friend of mine sent me, as a condolence gift, a book that she had literally made. It’s not just a book; its a sculpture of sorts, fanning out, when opened, with flaps containing her favorite quotes. It’s got color and texture and is a book like no other.

And this is my favorite quote of her favorite quotes: