Is it not wonderful to immerse oneself in literature? Every book is an opportunity to walk alongside its author who yearns to tell us ‘this is what I see’; awarding us with a rare glimpse into the mind of another who, by some miracle, offers us a great assortment knowledge from which any of its pieces we may freely choose to hold on to. As I lay in bed imagining before me the congregation of books that I have had the pleasure to read, an assortment of connections, like threads, began to form from one book to the next. Each represented an influence of one upon another; a single idea from one individual taken up and reverberated throughout an intricately divided network. It is not a matter of plagiarism, but rather a sequence of seeds selectively sowed by every author to produce the infinite diversity that we might only ever glimpse in our lifetimes. It occurred to me that an idea as influence to another, however it may diffuse, will carry its human source with it as long as it passes through thought. This was a delight to envisage: within the author’s hand is the weight of countless others who continue, perhaps everlastingly, their resonating influence in art.