One of the great side-effects of publishing a novel set in the world of rare books has been the fact that The Bookman’s Tale has brought me together with other book collectors, rare book librarians, and bibliophiles. The world, it seems, still teems with those who appreciate books in all their varied forms. One such connection I made recently was with a rare book librarian at Emory University, where my father donated his collection of 700 editions of Robinson Crusoe. David Faulds invited my wife, Janice, and me over for an afternoon of show and tell and shared with us just a few of the delights in the Emory collection. Janice flipped the pages of a first edition of Frankenstein, just a short way from where she read the book as an undergraduate; I held a copy of a book printed by William Caxton, the first printer in England—a history printed in 1482; and we reveled in many other treasures. Two books were especially meaningful to me. I have remarked many times in my appearances on my book tour of the power (illustrated in The Bookman’s Tale) of books to connect us to generations past—not just through their text but through various aspects of their physicality. David was kind enough to let us take a close look at two books from my great-grandfather’s small but impressive book collection, which has been housed at Emory for several decades. The first was a medieval manuscript Bible, not unlike the fictitious Psalter that Bartholomew Harbottle absconds with in The Bookman’s Tale. Written on vellum (in this case with few illuminations) the book (or at least the letters) are as legible today as they were 800 years ago. In the life of this book, my great-grandfather, who died nearly sixty years ago, was only a recent blip. Holding that book and turning its thick vellum pages, I felt (as my hero Peter Byerly does) the life and history emanating out of those marks on the page, made by some long forgotten monk. The other book was a magnificent copy of the Nuremburg Chronicle—a massive history of the world published in 1493 and one of the first truly illustrated printed books (containing over 1800 woodcuts, some possibly by Albrecht Dürer). Again the thick pages of rag paper were in as good condition as they were when first printed over 500 years ago. The black ink positively radiated off the page and the illustrations were magnificent. Many would not be out of place in a contemporary children’s book. To connect with both a family member and the printers, artists, and craftsmen of five centuries ago through the same book was a true bibliographical treat. David did mention that if he had a First Folio in his collection he probably wouldn’t let even his best student use it for reading Shakespeare assignments (as Peter Byerly does), but I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.