|photo taken by me|
People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write, they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.- The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield
I think this quote rings true for all types of art: music, photography, theater, among many others. Literature definitely belong in that category. A book is timeless and enduring. It will surpass its creator, every person that touches it, and every reader that devours it. It will be loved again and again, pass through many types of people and experiences. It will remain. It is endless. It is a permanent source of beauty and life.