“Then, as always at a certain moment, just before the sunlight began to pound the flagstones, things quieted down for a while, a cool breeze swept through the streets, something like a distilled, airy light spread over the city, bright without glare, light you could stare into…”
Now I know what André Aciman meant. On my second day in Alexandria, I went around the city of his childhood while its eyes were but half open, and I walked into that light of which he spoke. And I think he would be happy to know that I met several adorable stray cats and a bookseller whose name is Meghid along the way; and that I put his book down on the Roman flagstones just as light was gently spilling into the ancient amphitheater, as if it were liquid filling a cup.
In this memoir, the young André tends to read too much — as most people who become writers do. A grown-up chides him to live some more instead. Because isn’t there always this misconception that when one reads so much, they don’t live enough? Oh, André. I know what you know… people who tend to read too much, tend to live too much, too.
The Book-Butterfly 