“Execute me now!” moaned Don Vincente. “My copy is not the only one!”
Mark Our Words
“Sit!” he commanded the fly. The fly turned its mosaic eyes upon the blessed saint who wrote Airgitir Crábaid, now the earliest example of Old Irish Prose.
“Sit there!” commanded Colmán, pointing to the last word he’d read. And so the fly sat, patiently waiting until the saint returned to his reading in the Abbey of Muckamore.
The Word Made Flesh
The Afterlife of Books
The Book Lover’s Arsenal
“I don’t care what you cut with it, m’am; you aren’t taking that knife on this plane.”
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