“Wherever. They give us their thoughts, but not their bodies. They give us analysis, but not experience.”
“I
f I had a camera,” Felix says, drumming his fingertips on the wooden library desk, “I could simply take photographs of all the books here.”
Wilhelm looks around, smooths his dark moustache with two fingers, and raises a single eyebrow. “And when you have demonstrated your prowess as a photographer, what then?”
“And then I would have no need to sit here, day after day, while my hand cramps from writing notes and my head burns from all these—”
“All the dead words? “
His mother’s son, he can’t quite call the words dead, not while they’re being read and studied. “Not dead words, not exactly.” The shelves climb all the way up to the ceiling, filled with endless volumes. A group of new students sits across the way; Wilhelm doubtless is occupied with deciding what prank he can play on them.
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