Years later he’d stood in the charred ruins of a library where blacked books lay in pools of water. Shelves tipped over. Some rage at the lies arranged in their thousands row on row. He picked up one of the books and thumbed through the heavy bloated pages.
He’d not have thought the value of the smallest thing predicated on the world to come. It surprised him. That the space which these things occupied was itself an expectation.
He let the book fall and took a last look around and made his way out into the cold gray light.
Cormac McCarthy 2006