Reading (n.) is a circular road going to nowhere but itself. To read is to think the thoughts as the writer thought them or to interpret the writing in a productive way.
Reading (n.) must produce a signifying structure between what the writer commands and what he does not, not a quantitative balance of shadow and light.
Reading (n.) is the curse of childhood, and the child who reads ceases to think.
Reading (n.) is a way of dining in company: alone, the book seems to dine with the reader, a page and a morsel at a time.
Reading (n.) is complete only when it turns the book into a simultaneous network of reciprocal relationships.
Reading (n.) perforates speaking and writing, and through that hole I escape myself.
Reading (n.) is like an X-ray that uncovers, beneath one painting, a second painting, and beneath that another.