Books Have Become Products, Like Cereal Or

To Anyone With A Drop Of Irish Blood In Them The Land They Live On Is Like Their Mother. It's The Only Thing That Lasts, That's Worth Working For, For Fighting For

And If Things Always Stayed The Same, Scarlett, What Would Be The Reason For Bothering To Draw Breath?

But You Know Who You Are When You're On Your Own Out There In All That Emptiness. There's No Past, No Holding On To The Scraps That Are All You've Got Left. Everything Is That Minute, Or Maybe Tomorrow, Not Yesterday.

It's The Centuries, Scarlett Darling. All The Life Lived There, All The Joy And All The Sorrow, All The Feasts And Battles, They're In The Air Around And The Land Beneath You. It's Time, Years Beyond Our Counting Weighing Without Weight On The Earth. You Cannot See It Or Smell It Or Hear It Or Touch It, But You Feel It Brushing Your Skin And Speaking Without Sound. Time. And Mystery.

Books Have Become Products, Like Cereal Or Perfume Or Deodorant.