As We Read A Text In Our

We Are Losing Our Common Vocabulary, Built Over Thousands Of Years To Help And Delight And Instruct Us, For The Sake Of What We Take To Be The New Technology's Virtues.

Nothing Moves Except My Eyes And My Hand Occasionally Turning A Page, And Yet Something Not Exactly Defined By The Word "text" Unfurls, Progresses, Grows And Takes Root As I Read. But How Does This Process Take Place?

At Different Times And In Different Places I Have Come To Expect Certain Books To Look A Certain Way, And, As In All Fashions, These Changing Features Fix A Precise Quality Onto A Book's Definition. I Judge A Book By Its Cover; I Judge A Book By Its Shape.

As We Read A Text In Our Own Language, The Text Itself Becomes A Barrier.

There Is A Line Of Poetry, A Sentence In A Fable, A Word In An Essay, By Which My Existence Is Justified; Find That Line, And Immortality Is Assured.