Useless

Hundreds of books I got for free because someone didn’t need them. Antiquarian bookshops didn’t want them. The owners didn’t pay to take them to the waste paper collection. I collected them and brought them to the gallery. These once precious treasure troves of knowledge, symbols of education and erudition, companions on imaginative journeys, friends in times of need and comforters in times of sorrow, lay on the floor. They took up its entire surface and even spilled out into the corridor. Unnecessary, left to their own devices. Some of them would still maybe find new readers, maybe they would still interest someone. But to get to them, others had to be trampled on. As it is in life.

The audience had no resistance.