I opened the door yesterday and found two novels on my doormat: The Summer Guest, by Justin Cronin, and Cutting for Stone, by Abraham Verghese, neither of which I’d heard of, nor their authors, and both look to be compelling. I cannot imagine who might have left them, or why --- but thank you. Today I am reminded of something Salman Rushdie said of his boyhood: books were so revered in his home that he was taught to kiss any that fell to the floor, a ritual too lovely not to adopt. I kiss these two mysterious gifts, and also wonder, why wait for books to fall before kissing them? Why not, upon picking up whatever we are reading, greet our books as we would a dear friend who has come to visit? And if the book we hold is not one we would want to kiss, why read it?