He spends his days surrounded by the words of others in the old and lofty tomes of the library, and the ink-stained, bespectacled Englishman soon cannot help but feel the pull of new challenges and other forms. The book in which these poems live has an olivine binding. It is rather like an orphanage, and the words that fall between its covers are strays that have wandered from the usual predictable patterns of Everett's pen.