Within Rebecca Solnit’s long, loving essay on the books she recalls and the world she walks in, we find this gem:
“The object we call a book is not the real book, but its seed or potential, like a music score. It exists fully only in the act of being read; and its real home is inside the head of the reader, where the seed germinates, the symphony resounds. A book is a heart that only beats in the chest of another.”
Based on a talk she recently gave to a group of librarians, Solnit’s exploration of the connections between the books we read and the landscape from which those books spring will renew your spirits, and remind you that the lives of reading and writing that we all live are not lived in vain.