The New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue is pretty much my dream place – and it isn’t even in Paris. Like most bibliophiles, I am drawn to any place that is filled with books, even if I don’t have time to go inside, and even if I am in the middle of reading three books already. Book shops and libraries pull me in like magnets; no matter how humble the space or how pedestrian the literary selections, I can’t resist a chance to look at books, to pick them up and hold them in my hands, to thumb their pages while I ponder the stories inside. With that said, it’s easy to see why I would be attracted to the New York Public Library, but the building itself is a big part of the appeal to – all white marble, as far as the eye can see, with just the slightest hints of brass and wood. I walked up the library steps for the first time when I was nineteen, on a trip to New York with my mom; I was sick on that trip, probably sicker than someone should be while travelling, but I refused to stay home. My memories of our time in Manhattan have always been muddled, but I remembered a beautiful set of marble stairs leading into the most breathtaking building. When I finally realized, all these years later, that those stairs were on the front of the New York Public Library, it made perfect sense. Sadly, we arrived too late to go inside and wander among the shelves – the entire NYPL system as over fifty-three million books, more than even the most devoted reader could begin to tackle in a lifetime – but just walking up those stairs again felt like a kind of homecoming.