How does a book know? When I begin reading I’m initiated and I cannot wait for it. I believe it has escaped me once my eyes read something which holds other things. The book has buried my memories, it calls me to retrieve them from the future I had before meeting the page. I try return to the book before my burial finishes and open the coffin to see how I looked before reading. As I reach the ceremony I see the coffin hasn’t yet been lowered, so I quickly run to go open the lid. Inside the book rests in all its banality, with its words already reflected in my eyes and nothing to follow. I nevertheless keep reading until someone touches my shoulder and says, ‘I’m sorry but the viewing was yesterday’.
I envy the book. Inert, complete, it never waits for me amidst its own silence. The book always gives and I can’t know what I have left with it for I can never know what the book has lost.
ARGO 