I believe that the book is humanity's greatest invention. Because of the written word, I can sit today on my couch and it's as if Homer is come for tea, coming to regal me with all his stories of gods and goddesses; or, after a rainy dusk, Chekhov, fresh from a trip to Melikhovo, arrives just after dinner and, standing in the cold foyer, points out to me the moonlight- or rather, points out to me everything, by the moonlight, while CS Lewis, on the armchair, warms his feet in the fire and espouses a return to sturdy, earnest faith; and Rilke, while writing his stories about "God the Thimble" and the schoolchildren, glances with supreme curiosity at CS Lewis from time to time, from the corner table where he sits hugging the light.
In books, there are no mirrors. No subterfuge. The author is near to the reader, nearer even than the lips of the humble sinner to the ears of the confessor. In one place alone- out of all time and space- the author's mind and the reader's are one. In books, I can commune with the living that has long since been dead. I can hear what they say, I can learn from their wisdom. I can transcend my time. And for a moment, touch them- the immortal and the living- whose ideas and hopes still sire children in this world, years after their bones have dried up.
My name is Claire and I write the Thursday Book Review.
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