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My earliest memory, a blurry mingling of hospital walls and baby-blue blankets, is the birth of my younger brother. My second-earliest memory is my mother guiding my hand along lines of text, identifying letters and phonemes. With that sort of a background, it isn't surprising to learn that reading dominated my childhood, nor that I formed the resolution to be an English teacher sometime around the age of ten. (The discovery that one could get paid to talk about books all day was a revelation that felt like it should have been accompanied by angel's song). Eternally on the look-out for interesting new books (and perhaps a bit inclined to read "classics" in the hopes of impressing the grown-ups), I took Jane Eyre home on the first day of the sixth grade, and while my peers were swooning over heartthrob-of-the-year Leonardo DiCaprio, I fell wholeheartedly in love with Edward Rochester. Not that Titanic wasn't worth the price of admission all three times, but come on .. . Rochester!