This morning, while preparing myself to leave home, I scanned the library shelves looking for a book that will call me. Finally I fetched one, thinking “What is it that you want to tell me?”
On the road, I had this silly thought that all those books in my library are equal: you can’t tell by their physical appearance or location which is “more important”, sacred, classic, Nobel Prize, Plato or Philip K. Dick; which is holy, which is profane. All the books, in the space of my library, are equal.
But my books are certainly not equal in time. For in this particular moment my attention is devoted to this particular book which I fetched from my library earlier this morning. One book for a Time capsule.
The poor book: a world opened up for only one person inside a specific time capsule – such a waste of book’s power. I wonder what would it be like if millions of us open up the same book inside the same time capsule? It’s sort of Flash mobs, only with a specific book.
This book could reign; this book could shine.