an excerpt of a short story by Jonathan Safran Foer

"...The evolution continued. The typographical

symbol for flower became

a sketch of a flower, then an oil painting

of a flower, then a photograph of a flower,

then a sculpted flower, then a video of a

flower, and is, now, a real-time real-world

flower. Henry exists: he blinks, he inhales,

he tells his older brother, I love you more

now than I did before, he stammers, he

sways, he begs, Sophy, believe in me,

always.

This typeface was not used because of

the fear that it would be popularised, that

all books would be printed in real-time

real-world, making it impossible to know

whether we were living as autonomous

beings, or characters in a story. When you

read these words, for example, you would

have to wonder whether you were the

real-time real-world incarnation of someone

in a story who was reading these

words. You would wonder if you were not

the you that you thought you were, if you

were about to finish this book only

because you were written to do so,

because you had to.

Or perhaps, you think, it’s otherwise.

You approach this final sentence because

you are you, your own you, living a life of

your own creation. If you are a character,

then you are the author. If you are a slave

to your own weaknesses, then you are

unconstrained. Perhaps you are completely

free."

 

 

want to read all of it?  here it is. 

(by Emily Dickinson)


To fight aloud is very brave,
But gallanter, I know,
Who charge within the bosom,
the cavalry of woe.

Who win, and nations do not see,
Who fall and none observe,
Whose dying eyes no country
Regards with patriot love.

We trust, in plumed procession,
For such the angels go,
Rank after rank, with even feet
And uniforms of snow.