A few years back, while I was visiting my grandmother, an old, dusty book caught my eye. It read “An Overview of Literature: Renaissance-present” on the side in an outdated font and had the sideways script of my grandfather all throughout its pages. I never new my grandfather, as he died when my mother was only 19 of a sudden heart attack, but I’ve always heard from people that knew him that we are immensely alike in our demeanor, expressions, and our shared love of literature. The den of my grandmother’s house is still overrun with books that he would sit all night and devour, ranging from thought-provoking books on the history of Ancient Greece to classics like Gulliver’s Travels. To find such a book, with his notes scattered in the margins by every poem, connected me with him in the greatest way that I will ever know. I can peer into it and see into his mind in a way that I never could by simply knowing him, and that means all the world to me.