69
" For books are not absolutely dead things, but... do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them. I know they are as lively, and as vigorously productive, as those fabulous Dragon's teeth; and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men. And yet on the other hand unless warriors be used, as good almost kill a Man a good Book; who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image; but he who destroys a good book, kills Reason itself, kills the Image of God, as it were in the eye. Many a man lives a burden to the Earth; but a good Book is the precious life-blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.John MiltonAreopagitica "
70
" And I read something else," Jacob goes on. " There was this discussion of the story of Cain and Abel, from the Bible. After Cain kills his brother, God says, 'The bloods of your brother call out to me.' Not blood. Bloods. Weird, right? So the Talmud tries to explain it." " I can explain it," says William. " The scribe was drunk." " William!" cries Jeanne. " The Bible is written by God!" " And copied by scribes," the big boy replies. " Who get drunk. A lot. Trust me." Jacob is laughing. " The rabbis have a different explanation. The Talmud says it's 'bloods' because Cain didn't only spill Abel's blood. He spilled the blood of Abel and all the descendants he never had." " Huh!" " And then it says something like, 'Whoever destroys a single life destroys the whole world. And whoever saves a single life saves the whole world." There are sheep in the meadow beside the road. Gwenforte walks up to the low stone wall, and one sheep--a ram--doesn't run away. They sniff each other's noses. Her white fur beside the ram's wool--two textures, two colors, both called white in our inadequate language. Jeanne is thinking about something. At last, she shares it. " William, you said that it takes a lifetime to make a book." " That's right." " One book? A whole lifetime?" William nods. " A scribe might copy out a single book for years. An illuminator would then take it and work on it for longer still. Not to mention the tanner who made the parchment, and the bookbinder who stitched the book together, and the librarian who worked to get the book for the library and keep it safe from mold and thieves and clumsy monks with ink pots and dirty hands. And some books have authors, too, like Saint Augustine or Rabbi Yehuda. When you think about it, each book is a lot of lives. Dozens and dozens of them." Dozens and dozens of lives," Jeanne says. " And each life a whole world." " We saved five books," says Jacob. " How many worlds is that?" William smiles. " I don't know. A lot. A whole lot. "
72
" This is an ode to life.
The anthem of the world.
For as there are billions
of different stars that
make up the sky
so, too, are there billions
of different humans that
make up the Earth.
Some shine brighter
but all are made of
the same cosmic dust.
O the joy of being
in life with all these people!
I speak of differences
because they are there.
Like the different organs
that make up our bodies.
Earth, itself, is one large body.
Listen to how it howls
when one human is
in misery.
When one kills another, the
Earth feels the pang in its
chest. When one orgasms,
the Earth craves a cigarette.
Look carefully,
these animals are
beauty spots that make the
Earth’s face lovelier
and more loveable.
These oceans are the Earth’s
limpid eyes. These trees, its hair.
This is an ode to life.
The anthem of the world.
I will no longer speak of
differences, for the similarities
are larger.
Look even closer. There may be
distances between our limbs but
there are no spaces between
our hearts. We long to be one.
We long to be in nature and
to run wild with its wildlife.
Let us celebrate life and living,
for it is sacrilegious
to be ungrateful.
Let us play and be playful,
for it is sacrilegious
to be serious.
Let us celebrate imperfections
and make existence
proud of us, for tomorrow is
death, and this is an ode to life.
The anthem of the world. "
― Kamand Kojouri