It didn’t seem to be summer any more. I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together, and the big white hotel towel I had dragged down with me lay under my head numb as a snowdrift.
“In your life there are a few places, or maybe only the one place, where something happened, and then there are all the other places.”
― Alice Munro, Too Much Happiness
A book is not completed till it’s read.
Without words, without writing and without books there would be no history, there could be no concept of humanity.
Without words sure, but the two points would deny oral cultures their history and humanity.