Read the 5oth anniversary edition of Ray Bradbury’s 1953 “Farenheit 451” the other day and noticed this passage:
There is nothing magical in [books] at all. The magic is in what [they] say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us. Of course you couldn’t know this, you still can’t understand what I mean when I say this. You are intuitively right, that’s what counts. Three things are missing:
Number One: Do you know why books such as this are so important ? Because they have quality.
And what does quality mean ? To me it is texture. The book has pores. It has features. The book can go under the microscope. You’d find life streaming past in infinite profusion. […]
Number Two: The leisure [time & space] to digest it.
Number Three: The right [ freedom] to carry out actions based on the interaction of the first two.
How do you define Quality of chicken grease then?
Why would you want to “define” it ?