The suspicion that we and the world are made in the image of something wonderfully and chaotically
coherent far beyond our grasp, of which we are also part; the hope that our exploded cosmos and we, its stardust, have an ineffable meaning and method; the delight in retelling the old metaphor of the world as a book we read and in which we too are read; the conceit that what we can know of reality is an imagination made of language-all this finds its material manifestation in that self-portrait we call a library. And our love for it, and our lust to see more of it, and our pride in its
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