The object we call a book is not the real book, but its
potential, like a musical score or seed. It exists fully only in the act of
being read; and its real home is inside the head of the reader, where the
symphony resounds, the seed germinates. A book is a heart that only beats in
the chest of another. The child I once was read constantly and hardly spoke,
because she was ambivalent about the merits of communication, about the risks
of being mocked or punished or exposed. The idea of being understood and
encouraged, of recognizing herself in another, of affirmation, had hardly
occurred to her and neither had the idea that she had something to give others.
So she read, taking in words in huge quantities, a children’s and then an
adult’s novel a day for many years, seven books a week or so, gorging on books,
fasting on speech, carrying piles of books home from the library.
Rebecca Solnit
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