With no one left to pass them along, the
handwritten manuscripts lie strewn neglected relics – books
made feral. Books which cannot find a single
reader, never again to be turned open a single
time – feral books. Books corralled and chased off,
persecuted, stashed away buried in the moment of
evacuation, books hung worn away, left forgotten
lying covered in dust – feral books. Books with no
children to tend to their memory, millions of
words utterly dead stuffed in a ciet – feral books.
No one rewrites by hand, the word lovers
have lost inspiration, have grown hand weary, misty eyed,
exhausted – feral books. Father said
words are not to be read loudly
before the sun raises its head, they are
diseased – voices made feral. With pages
gone feral, with all the heaps of text written by
hand gone wild. - translated by Alec Schachner - photo by Jacques Smit