When I go downstairs to let the dog out into the backyard, I pass bookshelves. Most are heavy with volumes I have yet to read.

As I follow the dog, I glimpse a little of what is printed on the books’ spines. They remind me of gates in a vast train station. They offer to take me to wonderful places I know nothing about.

Going to such places made me a writer. In my childhood, books took me away from my allergies, bickering parents, my rolypoly silhouette and an abiding shyness. When I entered the world of a book, I found that, no matter how miserable I was, somewhere, somehow, things were more wonderful than I could imagine. Good guys beat the bad guys. Eccentric detectives solved crimes and delivered justice. A girl would enjoy the company of a bashful hero merely because he saved her from a hungry dragon. An awkward youth with something to say, was heard, and appreciated, for sharing what is most wonderful in his life, or for speaking the truth.

And views from spaceship windows–of other planets, other spaceships or dear old earth–were always spectacular.

Now, as I near my seventieth year, I find some of my childhood limitations returning. My allergies no longer trouble me, but I lack the endurance for long runs and heavy lifting. I do not have a big gut, but I’m not as fast, flexible and trim as I was when I was teaching karate. I’ve abandoned the self-defeating behavior I used to suppress my shyness and ignore my social anxieties, so I’m merely shy and anxious when I’m around other people.

I also know that good guys don’t always beat the bad guys, and that the more you come to know a person, the less good or bad they become. I’ve learned that about half the murders committed in this country are unsolved, and that no one–not even the lawyers–can depend on our legal system to be fair and just.

You don’t have slay dragons to find someone who will enjoy your company, but that doesn’t guarantee that you will live happily ever after.

That, and people don’t change much. If someone doesn’t like you, doesn’t want your business, is unimpressed with what you say or do, don’t try to win them over. They won’t give you the attention, approval, respect or trust that you deserve, no matter how many hoops you jump through. Best to withhold what you have to offer until you find those who will accept it, and you.

One very good thing: I don’t need to explore outer space. Ordinary views from a home window are more beautiful than those overlooking mountains, oceans and other worlds.

Another good thing: true salvation exists between life’s peaks and valleys. Not only are there more of these “merely okay” moments than the sums of our fears and epiphanies, giving yourself the time to appreciate them is a survival skill. You can build on those moments. They are the ground beneath your feet.

So I no longer need a book to take me anywhere. This place, this moment, is good enough and, in many ways, better than I can imagine, because I am married to someone with whom I live lovingly and contentedly.

In my adolescence, I used to read a book every two to three days. After I became a book critic, or when I prepared a history lecture, I’d average two to three books every week.

Now I spend more time with a book. The autodidactic thrill has been replaced with quotidian satisfaction. I no longer fool myself into thinking that I will be a better person if I can do this, or achieve that. It is enough to be alive and be kind to others.

But the books still call to me. Though I no longer need to be taken places, I enjoy the ride.