Kedarlaomer (watch out for Hebrew) ponders the difficulty of paper, the love for which he claims to have inherited from his father. This makes me wonder: can you inherit, literally inherit, a fetish? The rustling sound of paper, this titillating dryness of the page: is there a gene somewhere in there which compels these pleasures upon us? Perhaps a long forgotten mutation, spawned eons ago from a gene which made us cautious at the sound of feet approaching or had us long for the touch of skin — useless, but stayed in us by the forces of randmoness that govern all life?

You sit down with a book and sigh and inhale: there are faint smells of trees crashing to the ground and shredded with a thousand metal teeth. Ancient genes, insane by mutation, dream up mammoths brought down and teared apart by hand and eaten raw, and they release this cloud of contentment inside of you. You say, ah. Books. How cultural.