“A book is a heart that only beats in the chest of another”
Brainpickings just posted some passages from an essay on writers, books, and reading by Rebecca Solnit, from which comes this post’s title. Solnit’s remark echoes one in an untitled “soughknot” from Ladonian Magnitudes:
When the hand’s styled
at the alphabet as
eyes sense words there
here’s something new say
five thousand years ago
Not the mother tongue which
when we think it born
all time dreams
comes to completion
What’s bound cannot be carried like air
shelved in the library the dearest
books give spine to fingers and palm
by heart beat and hip get carried away
Poeta Doctus 
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