![]() The plot was trite, more an extended greeting card than a story. The book was diminutive, about four inches square, and was called “You’ll Never Have to Look for Friends.” It lived among the penny candy and the Wacky Packs at the old-fashioned general store across the street from our first house in Rhode Island. ![]() I remember coveting and eventually being permitted to own a book for the first time. Even then, the possession was not literal my father is a librarian, and perhaps because he believed in collective property, or perhaps because my parents considered buying books for me an extravagance, or perhaps because people generally acquired less then than they do now, I had almost no books to call my own. Books, and the stories they contained, were the only things I felt I was able to possess as a child.
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