I Like To Imagine That,

The American Psychologist Julian Jaynes, In A Controversial Study On The Origin Of Consciousness, Argued That The Bicameral Mind - In Which One Of The Hemispheres Becomes Specialized In Silent Reading - Is A Late Development In Humankind's Evolution, And That The Process By Which This Function Develops Is Still Changing.

The World That Is A Book Is Devoured Bya Reader Who Is A Letter In The World's Text; Thus A Circular Metaphor Is Created For The Endlessness Of Reading; We Are What We Read.

In No Way Am I Demeaning Writing Or Any Other Form Of Art Because It's Popular. What I'm Saying Is That Anything Fed Into The Industrial Machinery To Comply With Rules Of Size And Length And Shelf-life Has A Hard Time Surviving As Art.

Through Ignorance, Through Faith, Through Intelligence, Through Trickery And Cunning, Through Illumination, The Reader Rewrites The Text With The Same Words Of The Original But Under Another Heading, Re-creating It, As It Were, In The Very Act Of Bringing It Into Being.

It Is In The Translation That The Innocence Lost After The First Reading Is Restored Under Another Guise, Since The Reader Is Once Again Faced With A New Text And Its Attendant Mystery. That Is The Inescapable Paradox Of Translation, And Also Its Wealth.