Until then I had thought each book spoke of the things,
human or divine, that lie outside books. Now I realized that not infrequently
books speak of books: it is as if they spoke among themselves. In the light of
this reflection, the library seemed all the more disturbing to me. It was then
the place of a long, centuries-old murmuring, an imperceptible dialogue between
one parchment and another, a living thing, a receptacle of powers not to be
ruled by a human mind, a treasure of secrets emanated by many minds, surviving
the death of those who had produced them or had been their conveyors.
Umberto Eco
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