Bibliotheque Nationale

I am sitting and reading a poet. There are many people in the hall, but one doesn't feel them. They are in their books. Sometimes they move in the pages, like people who are sleeping and who turn over between two dreams. Ah, how good it is to be among people reading. Why are they not always so? You can go up to one and touch him gently: he feels nothing. And if you gently bump into your neighbor as you stand up, and excuse yourself, he nods toward the side on which he hears your voice, his face turns to you and does not see you, and his hair is like the hair of a person asleep. How good it feels. 
- Fra The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge av Rainer Maria Rilke