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| Photo by Becca Tapert on Unsplash |
How many people in the not too distance future will be left who understand what bookshops and booksellers used to mean to people like me? The difference it made to a town or city if there were such places one could go into in the hope of some revelation? Who will recall the tranquil manner in which one penetrated those warrens redolent of paper and print? The way of tilting the head to decipher one title after another, scan the names of authors familiar or unknown, glean clues from the pale covers? "The only true reader is the thoughtful reader." Who will recall the way of placing the index finger at the top of the spine to tip the volume backwards, then drawing it out, opening it, leafing through it, reading the blurb. Standing amid the riffle of pages, encountering a few words that appear to be addressed directly to oneself. The unhoped-for reassurance in black and white. An all-embracing, intimate acquaintance. Soundless music.
Pierre Péju (in The Girl From The Chartreuse)
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