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It’s a book
Have I written a book? You ask me. What’s it about then? About fonts! I see your puzzled look. Let me explain. Fonts are made up of small drawings that, when put in succession, make up words. You know, like on your cell phone when you send messages to your mother. If you place the tiny drawings in the right order she may find them useful or even funny. ¶ Let’s take it one step further. Suppose you put all your messages one after the other. I see question marks in your eyes – but stay with me. If your messages are interesting enough, you may want to keep them. Your old cell phone is now at the bottom of your desk drawer and your computer is waiting for its final journey to the nearest recycling plant. ¶ Imagine; hours of sending messages that end up in a recycling plant as tiny particles without meaning. What a waste, not only of your precious time but also of the beautiful sets of drawings which you had so carefully arranged. The feeling of dissatisfaction won’t leave you and it doesn’t help that your mother continues to recite loose fragments of your thoughts from her memory. What do you think? Am I not connecting with your daily routine here? ¶ All right then. Now if you would put all these messages in order, arrange them according to contents and subject and perhaps compile them into meaningful paragraphs with words and sentences, wouldn’t that be a great idea for a book. You could then print a few copies for yourself and for your mother. Imagine how thrilled she would be, quietly riding along on your train of thought. Fascinating don’t you think? ¶ Of course this is only an imaginary picture, but my fantasy continues. Your mother passes on, and because you live in a digital world by now, your have no need for all the things she collected during her life. You have all her belongings picked up by your local trader and the cash in hand is exchanged for the latest mobile gadget. ¶ Your mother’s books end up at a book trader who picks up your book with these fascinating little messages. You see him wondering? Shall I keep it or bin it? It all comes down to this tiny moment in time. Will your writings be worth saving. Are they of value to anybody, other than your greatest admirer? While you’re busy sampling your latest gizmo, the decision about possibly the only tangible thing you could be remembered by – the only non-virtual proof of your existence, is taken elsewhere.
Verba volant, scripta manent
Joep Pohlen, 2010