I think this quote is rather self-explanatory, but I shall still include my input. Marble colonnades awash in silver light might be paradise, if you wish to imagine a heavenly scene. Flowered fields. Skies stretching for miles. Promenades encompassed with the sweetest of scenery. Paradise might be something individual. Your paradise might very well different from mine. However, I am certain many out there would love to wander through the halls and shelves of a library for all of eternity.
Which is why every room in my house is packed with books. Books on shelves. Books piled on tables and nightstands. Books beneath my bed, books packed within closets. At this point, I joke the books I keep insulate my house. (Perhaps I have an addiction, and should seek professional help?) However, without these books, each room would lack character. Each room would lack what is most precious in this life. Books.
My reflection is different from yours, as we are individuals. This thought translates into our perception of books. What I interpret from a story might be different from what you read. In Wuthering Heights, for example, I might see Heathcliff as a romantic illusion and the epitome of the Byronic hero. You might see an abuser of women, a blackguard, and a heartless villain. In the Sorrows of Young Werther, I might see a broken-hearted man who found the courage to lift a gun to his temple. You, on the other hand, might see a coward who couldn’t move beyond his unrequited love. We each read stories, characters, and their themes differently than the next. This is what makes reading glorious, and this is why writers thrive in sharing their tales.