The Mutability of Literature

A blessed Palm Sunday to y'all, bookies.

Readers and writers alike should find this little sketch amusing. The author, in the library of Westminster Abbey, engages in dialog with an ancient text.

Washington Irving: The Mutability of Literature

...How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust aside with such indifference, cost some aching head! how many weary days! how many sleepless nights! How have their authors buried themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters; shut themselves up from the face of man, and the still more blessed face of nature; and devoted themselves to painful research and intense reflection! And all for what? to occupy an inch of dusty shelf - to have the title of their works read now and then in a future age, by some drowsy churchman or casual straggler like myself; and in another age to be lost, even to remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local sound; like the tone of that bell which has just tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a moment - lingering transiently in echo - and then passing away like a thing that was not....