just another dead poet
Consider this a collection of scribblings cast from the margins of my mind.
![Just started re-reading one of my FAVOURITE books. Do you ever feel as though you didn’t give a great book enough of a chance before? Or that there is still some mystery left to be discovered? Other than the art of reading, another one of my new favourite topics has become the art of making books. Especially due to my new job as an Editor — I’m much more interested in the ins & outs of how a book comes to be.
Here’s an sample of its infinite hold on me:
He was intrigued by […the] comparison of God to a book. If you could cradle this fearful volume in your hand, and were to open it anywhere, beginning, middle, or end, you would find that between any two pages there would always be another, between any two letters would be an unheard, invisible letter, a doorway to the void known only to mystics, where reigns a silence so profound that the roar of the entire universe rushes to fill it (58).](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lyf333X6xv1qztaiyo1_400.jpg)
Just started re-reading one of my FAVOURITE books. Do you ever feel as though you didn’t give a great book enough of a chance before? Or that there is still some mystery left to be discovered? Other than the art of reading, another one of my new favourite topics has become the art of making books. Especially due to my new job as an Editor — I’m much more interested in the ins & outs of how a book comes to be.
Here’s an sample of its infinite hold on me:
He was intrigued by […the] comparison of God to a book. If you could cradle this fearful volume in your hand, and were to open it anywhere, beginning, middle, or end, you would find that between any two pages there would always be another, between any two letters would be an unheard, invisible letter, a doorway to the void known only to mystics, where reigns a silence so profound that the roar of the entire universe rushes to fill it (58).
