Reference Books, An Ever Present Help In Trouble

I've always thought of a desert island as a desolate, lonely place, perhaps a last resting place, a spot I'd rather not be in Where there was not even a Man Friday to talk to. I think of it as a place one reaches by water, clinging to an insubstantial life raft, clutching a half-empty water bottle, and finally touching foot to sand, more dead than alive. Why should I care about what reference books are in my water-stained duffle bag?