I don’t believe in books—I believe in pages, in phrases, in lines. There are some, in some books, like in the coded text a general receives on the battlefield: only some of the words mean anything, surrounded by meaningless blather. The general places his cardboard stencil over the letter and reads only the words that appear in the cutout spaces. That’s how we should read the three-dimensional text of existence. But who gives you the stencil, who tells you the real words, who sifts the diamonds out of the slag?
