I have always had a very strong relationship with reading and with books. There are few pleasures as satisfying as browsing in bookstores and then curling up with a book. Throughout my life, I have rated very highly that late-night read, preferably with milk and great cookies. Although a Kindle/iPad is the apex of practicality when traveling (even more so for me because I travel for months and I can’t throw away any book), there is nothing like the feel and weight of a book in one’s hands.

Books are the basis of all learning; they feed our fantasies, nurture our souls, and basically enlighten every aspect of our journey on earth. Every summer my family chooses a book, and age notwithstanding, we have created our own reading club. Based on the ages of our kids we have read anything from The Count of Monte Cristo to Being Digital. They say that example is everything and we’ve added to a whole new generation of readers—our kids are ardent readers.

Books have their own special meaning to me. I find books intrinsically beautiful. I love having them around me and find them integral to home décor. Being the snob that I am, I thumb my nose at non-readers and the lack of books that belie them (“sotto voce,” of course).