She knew I favored the science fiction, the magical realism, the vanish of physical laws as rule and theme. So, once every few weeks or so, a new Tolkien, or Herbert, or Asimov-Heinlein-Borges-Garcia Marquez would casually appear. It was like a game we played. I was the bespectacled mouse who came out after the house went quiet. I nibbled these proffered hunks of literary Camembert slowly at first. Soon, I devoured them whole, along with the inevitable sleeve of Chips Ahoy and practically a bucket of milk. This was how my brain found its rest. My mother used to say that I liked to dream while I was still awake. It was true then and still is.