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Jeffrey Thomas Leong - San Francisco, California (USA):

April 20, 2001:
This is the book of beginnings, it is the first book you
    ever read, and it was about a dog in pajamas, the remainder
    of books are not in any particular order.
This book cannot be read in America by sons and daughters of
    Chinese immigrants, though it is a journal of poems written in Chinese
    about Angel Island, where my grandfather stayed, the book of dreams I
    need most, for which I have no translation, no interpreter.
This, the book of uncommon translations: the three dialects of the family
    tree from Kwangtung China. First, grandma whose Heung Shan village slang
    was a woman worth nothing in the 1920's, her unbound feet better
    to traipse the field’s rows. The second, in English, for her
    son, the only boy-child in a setting of eight, who could do
    no wrong but still flunked the bar exam. The third, for
    his wife, whose parents spoke a different village dialect
and was hated for her inflections, her stupid antecedents.
This book a practical tome on "being prepared," how to tie a
    square knot, shape a bandana into a triangle, or to dig a
    latrine when camping in the backyard, but never showed you how to
    swim that necessary lap from tenderfoot to second class, so you abandoned
    it to the wilderness of page 33.
This is the book of the untranslated "Le Petit Prince" by Antoine
    St. Exupery, text of French IV in the 12th grade, when you
    were infatuated with your blonde-haired friend who, too, was wooed by tiny
    wisdom, though you both knew the world too ball-like, too small for
    a snake and a child to be in love.
This book of memories, red leatherette-bound with silver embossed lettering on its
    cover, inside of which scrawled words, self-conscious of becoming memory, statement sounds
    like "Bitchin!'" and "You're crazy, the most!" But thirty years beyond,
    the one you thirst is her "Stay a nice guy, don't ever
    change!"
These are the twenty seven spiral-bound, green-tinted notebooks during the period of
    divorce, where the blue-lined scrawl fills every inch of page with its
    misery, back-slanted, sloppy, and quickly dashed, so different from your present script,
    though you know penmanship just an angled turn away from tears.
This book not intellectual, though it has intellect, this book is not
    factual, though it has facts, this book is not sexual, though
    it has sex.
This price guide is about large format, graphic myths and their subsequent
    value, when purchased for 10 cents in 1963, (who had heard
    of X-Men then?), this book continues to confirm what a numeric fool
    you’ve been, selling issue number one in ‘72 for 25 cents, worth
    $17,350 in 2001.
This traveling book has maps of Paris and recommendations of where to
    eat, what museums to see, the Louvre, certain paintings that command investigation,
    it recommends the 10 essential things to do romantic on that last
    vacation before adopting a child from China.
This, a book with no narrative, just squared lines with notes hung
    on the balance of their white face, a song that evokes a
    story, that we tell ourselves in each note we hear.
This book still unpublished, a book which burns to be born, but
    only an assemblage of word processed pages, Microsoft-worded, Times New Roman 12,
    with one inch margins in many iterations, each one sitting on a
    transparent desk waiting for its editor.
This book of recipes meant to be soiled by hands unwashed with
    peanut oil, wheat flour, oyster sauce, speckled by the wok's great splash,
    observed and seasoned by every formula of its own proven sentence.
This book has no happy ending, has no ending, ends happily though
    without ending, its progeny, other little books that have no ending, this
    book goes on and on.