“Everything in the world exists to end up in a book.”
Stéphane Mallarmé

Someone recently asked me what keeps me going.

I hadn’t really thought about it before.

It’s that I seem to be surrounded by books that haven’t been made yet.

A conversation.
An exhibition.
A label.
The way a parcel is wrapped.
A collection.

None of them begin as books.

But somewhere along the way, they become possibilities.

I catch myself wondering what shape they would take.
How they might unfold.
What they would feel like to hold.

Is it a codex, a concertina, a box, or something else entirely?

I hadn’t noticed it happening.

At some point, books stopped being simply something I made.

They became the way I think.