“A book is a heart that only beats in the chest of another”

Brainpickings just posted some passages from an essay on writers, books, and reading by Rebecca Solnit, from which comes this post’s title. Solnit’s remark echoes one in an untitled “soughknot” from Ladonian Magnitudes:

 

When the hand’s styled

at the alphabet as

eyes sense words there

here’s something new say

five thousand years ago

 

Not the mother tongue which

when we think it born

 

all time dreams

comes to completion

 

What’s bound cannot be carried like air

shelved in the library the dearest

books give spine to fingers and palm

by heart beat and hip get carried away

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