April 23rd has been chosen to celebrate the world book day; this day, in 1616, Miguel de Cervantes and William Shakeaspeare died. Well, not exactly, Cervantes was buried on the 23rd, and Shakeaspeare died that day but according to the Julian Calendar which corresponds to May 3rd. Anyway, some days sooner or later do not change the meaning of the celebration (I sympathise with oxfordians, after all). The fact is that April 23rd for me is more important even than April 3rd (my birthday, ehem).
I guess that my epitaph should be something of the kind here lies — who tried to read as much as she could. I have sailed the seas with Nostromo, fought in Borodino with Bolkonsky, walked Dublin streets with Leopold Bloom. I was in Pompeii during its last days, I have witnessed the rivalry between Scipio and Hannibal, seen Alexander the Great drawing his last breath in Babylon. I have heard a dead woman talking in her coffin as she laid dying, I was as perplexed as Doctor Carr watching her husband David trying to be good, I have been in L.A. with Jack Vincennes, Bud White and Ed Exley.
Because I love reading, and I love books, this is the most important day of the year for me.