I Wanted To Live Among Books.

I Have No Feelings Of Guilt Regarding The Books I Have Not Read And Perhaps Will Never Read; I Know That My Books Have Unlimited Patience. They Will Wait For Me Till The End Of My Days.

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?

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.

The World That Is A Book Is Devoured Bya Reader Who Is A Letter In The World's Text; Thus A Circular Metaphor Is Created For The Endlessness Of Reading; We Are What We Read.

This Morning I Looked At The Books On My Shelves And Thought That They Have No Knowledge Of My Existence. They Come To Life Because I Open Them And Turn Their Pages, And Yet They Don't Know That I Am Their Reader.