I don’t know anyone who reads. I don’t read. I don’t know how to read. No one knows how to read. There’s no such thing as reading… I’ve never read anything in my life. No one has. No one has ever known how to read. History is full of people who could not and didn’t read. History was written by non-readers. History is writing and not reading. Historians can’t read. Neither can I.  At the moment I am equidistant from all forms of reading. I mean, I’m standing in the middle of nowhere, and reading is very far away from me, set up on plinths that seem to keep their distance as I approach. That doesn’t make any sense, but it doesn’t matter, because there’s no one around who can read this. It’s okay because reading as a phenomenon hasn’t been invented. In the future we will have readers, and they will begin their histories with sentences like “For a long time, no one could read…” They will chart the history and development of reading. They will list all of the notable non-readers: Plato, Aristotle, Augustine, Descartes, Rousseau… “What a shame,” they will say, “that all of these figures couldn’t read.” If only reading had existed then, where could these figures have taken us? The answer is nowhere. With or without reading—reading doesn’t do you any favours. If Plato could read he would not be remembered. No one would care. He’d be poisoned. What’s the history of the world without reading? It’s the same history as today, because this is that world. 

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