izzy

Sitting in an ancient and sagging leather armchair upstairs at Shakespeare and Co, with the sounds of Notre Dame’s bells pealing through the open window and breathing in dust, wood and old paper. These walls breathe. Once a place accumulates a certain amount of history, once enough ideas and excitement melt into its walls, it becomes a tourist attraction. How many writers have touched their hearts to this ceiling, how many poets put their ears to the buckled shelves? How many philosophers rested their teeth on the tiled floor, how many revolutionaries placed their fists on a patch of stone wall by the window? How many sightseers have stood under the sign at the front door and crossed it off the map, how many backpackers have looked around the library and left when there was nothing in this room to buy? I do the tourist thing and leave a note on the wall by the typewriter. These walls breathe but they don’t speak, they listen.

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sarah

A: I’m not real.
B: You are.
A: I’m not. I’m just words.

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