Knowledge
I held the book between my fingers: its thickness impressed me as I realised that knowledge was something physical. I tracked my consumption of these words, seeing where my bookmark had reached, using fingers to estimate if I was halfway yet. It was with me for months in France: I chose its company, on the bed in a strange room, instead of the family from whom I had alienated myself. “I have consumed that,” I told myself at last; and now the physical knowledge on my shelf daunts me, contains more than one life time is sufficient to even taste.
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