I could sit in a library for a whole day without food, feeding on just the sight and smell of books. What are books, but thought captured and bound up? And, what is a thought, but a mere morsel torn from the whole fabric, small enough to chew? I have this fancy of knowledge, once-congealed like Pangaea, since shattered by the breaking of all things: of peace with God, of land, of language. And that was only the knowledge accessible to man.
My hope in opening any book, is to glean some piece that fits with what I already think I know. Or at least, to make me question it.
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