They thought that books were something you could touch, feel, hold in your hands; something that had pages to turn, with words on them, and pictures to help you see and understand new, interesting things. Something that smelled of ink and pulp and glue. Books.
What they didn't know was that there are books of another kind. One where words speak volumes, yet are nowhere to be seen, where information is held and scrutinized, learned; where pictures are three dimensional, and just their size. Centerfolds of time that are open, waiting for them to step in and be.
If they can have mornings like this, in the September pages of the River Book, not for a moment associating it with 'school', then I've done my job well.
