the beauty of it,
the simple, strokeable, in-the-handness of it,
the way it has of flattering ink,
giving it to understand that
nothing matters
until it is printed or written down
to be cherished on paper.
The way old paper levels time,
is the archive's treasure,
is evidence talking to your fingers
when passion, two hundred years dead,
filters through the ink-net that,
pen in hand, a lover once spread for his mistress,
ignorantly scooping the archivist
into his catch.
The connoisseur of wine
keeps company with the connoisseur of paper,
as the printer, rag-testing, rice-testing,
escapes from the glaze of his computer
to explore with a fingertip
an elegant topography
reserved exclusively for types he likes
and faces that delight him.
All the same,
the virtual truths of the TV
and the ongoing game of what happens
sluice through the global drain
in a torrent of paper.
Throw it away or save it,
every day as it dies
instantly becomes news on paper.
Some intelligent people
keep house in a paper graveyard.
Guilt can be buried
in boxes of neglected affection.
Children can grow up still
toothlessly grinning from the mantel.
Paper multiplies unmercifully.
Don't be too merciful to paper.
~ Anne Stevenson
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Only on paper has humanity yet achieved glory, beauty, truth, knowledge, virtue, and abiding love. ~ George Bernard Shaw
