Too.

In silence between writer and reader a memory of words and hands takes form.

We learn substance and worth through others’ eyes.

Cloth, flesh, ink, skin, paper, dust.

These are but material forms in which ideas dwell.

In the roar of a crowded shelf of books, desert sun and Arctic night, distant seas of thought awaken, mingle, and are still.

Minds meet where the reading hand grasps the void and inks its passage in empty margins.

Lost, forgotten, thumbed, split.

We beat the scars of patient decades and centuries’ dreams.

Whose hands will next hold me, I do not know.

The book, too, reads its readers in real time.

Henry Wessells, from The Private Life of Books