“It’s tragic, really,” he said, “how lonely we are with so many of our memories. All those things that meant such a lot to us, the little details that combine to make up almost everything that is precious in life. A scent, an atmosphere, a particular kind of light in the sky. All those fleeting elements that can’t be re-created. Books hold so many memories, details that live on because someone has tried to put them into words, written them down and woven them into a narrative. Just imagine how many perceptions of the world are passed on from one person to another.”
