I cried all during the night, as the ashes smoldered, so glad to be hundreds of miles away from you, where I didn’t have to look at you or what you destroyed. I was still attached to those parts of me. I hate you most for burning my books. Those books were my best friends through so many hard times. I suppose I should have expected such disrespect for the companionship of literature from someone who is illiterate. I should feel sorry for you because you don’t even realize the enormity of the crime you committed, against not only me, but against all book lovers, collectors, readers, and writers. If they all knew what you did, you would bear the burden of much hatred.

You were always so jealous of my time spent with books; jealous of my ability to escape my current reality into a world you could not go. You were jealous of a lot of things. Your jealousy is your defeat. Your covetousness your demise. Those are the reasons you cannot be free, you cannot know love, and you will never grow up.