Such a cute street library 📚 🐈
I can’t pass one without browsing.
When was the last time you gave a book to, or picked up a book from, a little street library?
Human history, if you squeeze it hard enough and shake it like a dusty dictionary, turns out embarrassingly simple: humanity has had an allergy to books for millennia. A chronic bibliographic dermatitis. People break out in hives at the sight of a spine with printed letters. First we have Assyria and the Library of Ashurbanipal, where someone collected thirty thousand clay tablets so future generations could lovingly pulverize them like unwanted delivery food. The conquerors didn’t just take the city; they left a warning to posterity: Down with reading, up with the swords. Swords, of course, never explained anything and have never been reliable narrators.
Then, with dramatic flair, appear the delightful gentlemen of the Qin dynasty in the third century BCE, who decided the Chinese intelligentsia was suspiciously intelligent. The solution was elegant in its barbarity: burning books and burying scholars alive. A promotional combo. The first Black Friday, except without discounts and with more smoke.
In Europe the plot thickens with the legendary burning of the Library of Alexandria. Did fanatics torch it? Romans? A careless monk trying to boil water for tea? Historians argue. But one thing is certain: someone looked at millions of scrolls and concluded the world would be better if they didn't exist. This becomes a recurring hobby. The Middle Ages treat books like heretical fashion accessories, the intellectual equivalent of wearing striped socks to school. Someone writes something different? Poof, flames. Letters rise upward like philosophical mosquitoes.
Modernity contributes its own pyrotechnics with the Nazis in 1933, organizing history's most famous literary barbecue. Torches, speeches, chanting students. Jorge Luis Borges later remarked that burning a book is like burning a thought. The Nazis, naturally, took that as a compliment.
And of course we have contemporary nations that periodically wake up in a panic: Help, the children are reading unsuitable books. So they ban them. The books, not the children, though occasionally one suspects they'd prefer both.
In short, our entire history is one long, smoky extravaganza in which books are forced into the role of either survivors or ashes.
Now imagine the antipode: the Dictatorship of the Book. A sharp-edged, Stopardian, delightfully absurd regime in which reading is not a hobby but a sovereign power. An anti-utopia in the spirit of Huxley, but with the cozy scent of library glue. In this new world students don’t raise flags in the morning; they raise books. Police officers carry hardcovers instead of batons, which are both more effective and more educational. In the metro the only fine is for traveling without reading. At home, before anyone is allowed near the soup, each family member must read aloud a passage that moved them, amused them, inspired them, or at least mildly irritated them. If it didn’t move you, you read a second one. If that fails, you go to a Re-Education Reading Camp, where the harshest punishment is silence.
Universities adopt a new greeting: What are you reading instead of What’s up. On the street patrols stop you and ask: Good afternoon, citizen, are you thinking critically today? Please recite your last paragraph.
There is only one law: Reading is the proof of existence. If you do not read, you are a semi-individual, with one more brain fold than a chicken out of sheer pity. If you do read, welcome, you are human with a capital H.
And because the world has spent thousands of years trying to burn the written word, our new dictatorship will spend its time consuming it. Every comma. Every footnote. Every tear-inducing, giggle-provoking, Stopard-flavored paragraph.
In this world the book does not merely survive. It rules.
And for the first time in history, the smoke that rises is not from flames. It is from thought. And perhaps a bit of dust from old libraries, because even the best dictatorships collect relics.
The 3rd day of #NSMHC2025 kicked off with a Plenary session on Strengthening Post Abortion Care and Advancing Reproductive Justice for Safe Motherhood.
Discussions included the fact that Post Abortion Care is not just a clinical issue but a matter of dignity,equity, and justice.
Every villain has a story. The best ones aren’t evil for evil’s sake—they’re driven by something. Fear. Pain. Misguided love. A sense of justice warped by circumstance.
https://t.co/1ZG76uxNgL
Every villain has a story. The best ones aren’t evil for evil’s sake—they’re driven by something. Fear. Pain. Misguided love. A sense of justice warped by circumstance.
https://t.co/1ZG76uxNgL