A Book (n.) of the prophetic kind carries the disputed land within it more deeply than the geological strata of its depths.
A Book (n.) that has lost its inspired message no longer dirties the hands that touch it, and can fall without danger into anyone's hands.
A Book (n.) gathers past and future into the presence of a thing between two covers — the being of beings gathered into a being.
A Book (n.) opens the gates of life, life extending beyond it but having to pass through it, and real life beginning by no longer being a book.
A Book (n.) that cannot be read without commenting on it can be commented on only in light of new facts, so the Scriptures grow with a holy history that is not over.
A Book (n.) makes us beings-toward-the-book and not only beings-in-the-world, and it is no tool at hand, for my relation to it is not the one I have with the hammer or the telephone.
A Book (n.) wards off idolatry by its very essence as a book — by the permanent reading, interpretation and reinterpretation it demands.
A Book (n.) before becoming a document is perhaps the way the said lays itself open to exegesis — where meaning, immobilized in the characters, already tears the texture that holds it.
Book (n.) that are the true ones are embers still glowing beneath the ashes, the flame traversing History without burning in it and illuminating whoever breathes on it, for it is a question of breath.
A Book (n.) points beyond itself — this rectangular, solid opacity becomes a book only by bearing my thought toward what is absent: the author who writes, the readers who read, the shelves that store.
A Book (n.) is interrupted discourse catching up with its own breaks — yet books have their fate: they call for other books, prefaces and forewords, and end up interpreted in a saying distinct from the said.