When books have all seized up like the books in graveyards
And reading and even speaking have been replaced
By other, less difficult, media, we wonder if you
Will find in flowers and fruit the same colour and taste
They held for us for whom they were framed in words,
And will your grass be green, your sky be blue,
Or will your birds be always wingless birds?
Louis MacNeice, Visitations (1957).
I'll post more, on another day. Need to go to bed now. Beautiful bookshop, visited yesterday.
Also castles and stuff.
Really really tired now, so will do it another day.
