What follows is an installment of Lightplay, my email newsletter. To receive this in your email inbox, subscribe here.
Dear Reader —
I hope this letter finds you well in health and spirit. Here in Los Angeles, the morning is cool and the air clear. Late fall!
Today, I’m thinking about travel. Partly, this is because I’ve been receiving short, photo-laden daily emails from a man currently walking the 500km Tōkaidō pilgrimage route in Japan. (More info here.) Maybe it’s also due to a seasonal fear-of-holidays, an atavistic terror at the big feelings I and others will surely have. And, oh yeah, the travel-blocking global pandemic might have something to do with it too.
Which is why I found myself delighted when I found deep in my drafts an old travelogue, partially drafted but never sent. I wrote it between January 25th and February 9th, 2016, when I was briefly living in Lao and walking the banks of the Mekong every day. It was supposed to be the ninth installment of the previous incarnation of this newsletter, Jasper’s Travelogue. The piece had the working title “The Farthest Shore.”
It’s clearly incomplete, hardly travelogue but not yet an essay. Nonetheless, I think it captures something of the way travel spurs thought. Reading it, you might remember how travel feels, how travel can be a way of thinking with your body. I hope you enjoy it.
The Farthest Shore
Tonight it’s raining in Luang Prabang, a cold rain. Foreigners huddle in an upscale coffee shop a block from the main intersection, speaking French and Korean, English and Chinese. We’re all travellers; this much we share. Travel is private, though, as personal and secret as a diary or a bank account. Only the traveller himself can know why he is where he is — so far from home, damp, thoroughly alone. And even he has doubts.
I am sure of this: I will go no further. This is the terminus of my trip. From here I begin the slow march home, a retracing of my footsteps till I end up where I started. Back to the border with Thailand, then to Chiang Mai, to Bangkok, back to Xining, to Hong Kong, and finally back to San Francisco, back home. Though as Heraclitus pointed out you can never step in the same river twice: it’s not the same river, and it’s not the same you. It’s not the same home.
I’m in a reflective mood. The rainshower has passed, and the last few drops on the tin roof outside my shuttered window sound like an engine block cooling. Today I went to Western Union and collected enough money to get me back to China, hopefully. While the clerk processed my transfer we talked. He told me that the boys here all want to find a Korean girlfriend, but he likes the Lao girls. His girlfriend teaches English to locals and Lao to foreigners. The locals pay about $20 a month; the foreigners pay over $200. He thought this was funny, and I did too. A pack of cigarettes costs forty cents here.
So some foreigners come to Lao and study the Lao language. I also meet nursing students from Australia who operate a mobile clinic for the hill tribes. Also meet a girl from Santa Monica who is travelling each month to a new country and volunteering there. She’s got it all set up in advance. Meet a German-speaking Italian couple from Sudtirol who only spend one or two days in each place and have in the last two months crisscrossed South America. Meet two Swedish girls who visited many Lord of the Rings sites in New Zealand. Man with dreadlocks on slow boat to Luang Prabang says, “… and you can hike from one beach to next — I’m telling you, man, it’s like heaven.” Other man replies, “Yeah, but does it have wifi?” Meet a Finnish former child film star who drives taxis and still acts but is taking a month off. Meet an older couple who are reprising the magic year they spent traveling in 1986, only now they have guides and hotel bookings and return tickets in one month. Meet a Canadian ex-colonel who owns rental properties in Quebec and explains to me his philosophy of travel: sleep cheap, eat cheap, and pay for experiences. Meet a Danish couple who bought a bike in Vietnam, put a few thousand kilometers on it, and are now trying to sell it for $250.
Why are we all travelling? It’s a question even less answerable than, Why am I travelling?
In the States you can visit a photographer to have your picture made before a blue screen. Then using simple computer software the photographer can add in backgrounds with similar lighting. Look, it’s us at the Great Wall! The Great Pyramids! The Taj Mahal! Aushwitz! Pluto! The Drive-Thru Redwood!
It’s one of the stock fears that modern travelers have to watch out for: the feeling that you’re not really there, not actually experiencing the place, at all.
A friend once related to me this anecdote: She was to spend the summer abroad, living with a roommate. Sometime in May she received her roommate’s name and contact info. Naturally, my friend looked up her roommate-to-be on Facebook. There she found countless photo albums of trips to art museums. It went like this: first the roommate-to-be would be smiling next to the painting, then the roommate-to-be would be would be actually touching the painting. Over and over again, these strange duplicates — one beside a painting, the next one groping it. And I guess that is one way of having a real experience with art. Are these homestays and language classes and volunteer opportunities with the hill tribes also ways of trying to touch, of proving to yourself that you really were there?
When I was eighteen I visited Paris for two whole days. My first afternoon I stumbled into the Orangerie, an art museum next to the Louvre. When Claude Monet began to lose his eyesight, he retired to his garden and took up his final subject: water lilies. Out of hundreds of works the greatest were eight vast canvases. The French government wanted these paintings to display to the public, and Monet agreed to donate them, so long as they built two enormous ovular rooms to display them in. I paced through these rooms, this temple to the impressioniest Impressionist, hungry and tired. The artwork didn’t move me — it seemed centrally to prove that the artist did indeed have cataracts. The objects of greater interest were the tourists themselves, who spent much of their time posing for photos with the murals. Why take a photo with a picture anyways? Why take pictures at all when you can buy a catalog in the gift shop?
I spent an hour in the Orangerie, taking pictures of tourists taking pictures. None of them are very brilliant photos. Much later the fancy camera that I was then lugging around with me would be stolen from a coffee shop in a cafe in the Mission district of San Francisco. The coffee shop was called Mission Creek. Now I travel with only an iphone camera, but I still sometimes take pictures of people taking pictures, images duplicated on viewfinders duplicated on my screen and now duplicated again for you. Do these halls of mirrors only estrange us from reality, or do they conceal other and more subtle realities?
My violin teacher Via was once an art history student at Vassar College. During her studies she once tried to join a graduate level seminar with a famous art historian. She had to visit his office hours to plead her case — usually the course wasn’t open to undergrads. She expected that he would ask her about her grades, which courses she’d already taken, et cetera. Instead he asked her to name a painting that she knew well. She named one, hesitant, and he said that he also knew it. Then he asked her what type of tree it was growing on the banks of the river. She wasn’t totally sure, but she thought she remembered it being a dogwood. Or maybe she remembered it being a pear. Whatever it was, she was right, and she got to take the class.
You can spend your whole life looking at a single great painting and always see something new. Or you can take an Art Appreciation course, as I once did, and memorize a few facts each about “Starry Night” and “Guernica” and “Spiral Jetty.” It actually was a valuable course in many ways, not least because I learned the names of a lot of artists I’d never before even known existed. You need a point of entry in order to begin real study.
I think of the Lonely Planet books as largely resembling a survey course. They summarize a handful of places, suggest where to stay, name a few popular activities. They’re a starting place, and are more than useful when you first arrive. But it’s also good to stay a while, wander down alleyways, inspect butterflies, share cigarettes with doormen, learn the names of trees.
[The travelogue abruptly cuts off, overweighted by its own head-scratching. All that remains as notes for the words that would have followed is a single quotation.]
“But while we are looking for the antidote or the medicine to cure us, that is, the new, which can only be found by plunging deep into the Unknown, we have to go on exploring sex, books, and travel, although we know that they lead us to the abyss, which, as it happens, is the only place where the antidote can be found.”from Roberto Bolaño, “Illness + Literature = Illness”
May we all get to travel in the not-too-distant future. And while we wait, may we each stay safe and protect each other. Till next week, I wish you only the best.
15 November 2020
What follows is an installment of Lightplay, my email newsletter. To receive this in your email inbox, subscribe here.
Dear Reader —
I hope that this Sunday you’ve had space to exhale, relax, and take stock. I know I have.
The election is over. Thank you, each of you who helped rebuke this band of would-be authoritarians, be it by voting, volunteering, giving money, protesting, having hard conversations, and never going along with the worst of it. We did it.
I am going to keep this letter short. There will be plenty of time to explore what it all means. I want to tell you about something I saw yesterday afternoon.
My partner and I were driving east to visit our friends who just moved here. I wanted to finally open the bottle of champagne—Roederer Brut—that I bought before election night 2016 and have been carrying with me ever since.
The streets over were crowded with ecstatic people: carrying signs on streetcorners, standing through the sun roofs of cars, riding bicycles with one fist held in the air. A great honking was underway. And screaming. It sounded like a great victory had just been won. As indeed it had.
We came out from behind a tall building to see spread across the sky a great arch of light.
The rainbow was so bright.
Light like this, it fills you.
For ten minutes—twenty minutes—it spanned the sky.
Finally, where Santa Monica spills onto Sunset, the rainbow began to peter out. A new group of celebrants had taken over the road. We cut off and took back streets.
Soon night fell. We opened the champagne, watched the speeches, ordered pizza, stayed up late talking through our masks.
And once we got home and went to bed, the sleep was deep and sweet.
I wish that for you, too, dear reader. Till next week, stay safe.
8 November 2020
What follows is an installment of Lightplay, my email newsletter. To receive this in your email inbox, subscribe here.
Dear Reader —
What a Sunday to find myself back in your inboxes! The first of November, 2020. Two days from a true fulcrum of history. I hope that you are well, that you have been able to sleep, and that you and your families are safe. Welcome to the tenth edition of Lightplay.
Four years ago, I gave my presidential endorsement in the the form of a series of Star Wars-themed collages. Although the election didn’t go the way I wanted it to, I’m still very proud of my insight in putting Ted Cruz, Marco Rubio, Jeb Bush, and Herman Cain in the Mos Eisley Cantina. Unfortunately, my endorsement’s closing image—an AT-AT Walker with Trump’s head, shooting energy bullets out its eyes—proved only too prescient.
This year, everything feels miles more serious. To that end, I have created a photo-essay recounting a road trip across America my partner, her father, and I took this summer. I hope that you enjoy it.
I wish you safety and even—I can hope—joy in the days to come.
1 November 2020
What follows is an excerpt from my email travelogue, which I send every week or two while I’m on the road. To subscribe to the mailing list, follow this link. This installment was originally sent out on November 16, 2015.
My last morning the monk and I struggle to communicate. I’ve told him that I’m going to hitchhike to Derge, a town famous for its traditional printing presses. He leans forward again and pretends to spread ink on a woodblock, mimes putting paper down, and then rocks forward again as if he was running a roller the length of the paper so that it will pick up the ink. “Yes,” I say, “I’m going to Derge.”
“No,” he says shaking his head, and he points at the floor. He pantomimes printing again. In this monastery? That doesn’t make sense. Only three monks live here. That’s not enough to run a printing press. This room, the bedroom of the monk I’m talking with, has two rug-covered sleeping platforms, a warm coal stove, a bare compact-fluorescent bulb dangling from the ceiling, and ornately painted paneling on all sides. This monastery’s central function is apparently to host travelers. The income from guests seems to be enough to support the monks, to buy butter lamps, and even to underwrite the purchase of a late-model red motorcycle that they keep in a disused storeroom. The monks lead a simple life here, cooking noodles for guests, shooing yaks out of the courtyard, going to the neighboring monastery for morning prayers. There certainly doesn’t seem to be any evidence of a press here.
The monk stands up and gestures for me to follow him. I shove the remainder of my tsampa into my mouth, pray for saliva, and go through the pocket door and out towards the monastery’s only temple. It’s the tallest building in the walled complex, and it’s been locked the three days I’ve stayed here. He takes down the key from its secret niche and unlocks a padlock that chains the door to the flagstones. I follow him inside.
It’s dark, and the still air is cold but dry and musty. The fluorescent tubes flicker to light, strobing through greenish, unreal hues till they settle into a thin light. Wood rafters high overhead support the mud roof, and at the back of the chamber stand five tall Buddhas. The monk walks me over to the sidewall of the room. It is lined with tall shelves filled with thousands of paddle-shaped woodblocks. I take out a heavy block and look at the mirrored Tibetan characters rising from both sides of the plank. The chiselwork is exquisite: religious words in careful script, meant to be iterated a thousand, a thousand thousand times, to be read by students and chanted beneath great thangkas, meant to be read. Now they sit here, like relics, in a half-forgotten monastery.
We walk to the other end of the hall, where there are just as many shelves and blocks. One section is filled with broken and rotten shards of destroyed woodblock. They haven’t been thrown out but instead are preserved here, holy even in their fallen state. They remind me of genizot in Synagogues, where damaged or worn-out holy texts and even documents or letters containing invocations of God are stored before they can receive a proper burial. The Jewish God in written form is considered to be not only holy but also living and due all the respect accorded the human body. The most famous genizah, the Cairo Genizah, contained more than 300,000 Jewish documents and fragments when it was discovered, and these riches have allowed countless scholarly discoveries across many fields and given us a clear image of Jewish medieval life in the Islamic world. (My teacher James Russell once wrote a fascinating paper about a traveler’s multi-lingual word list found in the Genizah, and now I can report that if I were to make a traveler’s dictionary some of my most important phrases would be, “I don’t eat meat” and “Please take me to x.”) So these preserved shards of old Tibetan woodblocks, kept in the same temple as the entire ones, are not only aesthetically beautiful but evidence of a culture that respects its gods and its history. I ask the monk if I can take pictures with my cell phone, and he agrees, but the light is weak so they don’t come out very well.
We walk back out into the morning glare and talk about the history of this monastery. Now, I don’t speak any Tibetan and only a handful of words in Chinese. Likewise the monk speaks very little Chinese and no English. So we communicate by sign language and drawing numerals on our palms. It’s possible, even likely, that I’ve got some of this wrong.
In the early 1950’s, this monastery supported 300 monks. From history I remember that at this time_ the Chinese Communist Party had finally won the Chinese Civil War, forcing the Kuomintang to retreat to Taiwan. The Communists were eager to solidify their control of Chinese territory, and they suddenly had a surplus of idle troops. So they began sending soldiers into Kham. The region of Kham stretches through swaths of present-day Sichuan Province and the Tibet Autonomous Region, as well as smaller parts of Gansu, Qinghai, and Yunnan Provinces. The soldiers of the People’s Liberation Army encountered local resistance in Kham — I won’t go into it here. They also began disbanding monasteries, which were found to contribute nothing to the well-being of the proletariat while leeching valuable resources for the worship of gods that didn’t exist. In 1954 this monastery was destroyed, razed to the ground.
The monks were not, however, caught entirely unaware. They managed, with the help of local farmers and nomads, to smuggle from the monastery thousands of its precious woodblocks, along with certain important relics. They buried them all in secret and then commenced waiting for that day when the woodblocks could once again have pride of place in a temple. The intervening years were dark. In 1964, Chairman Mao initiated the Cultural Revolution, remaking — or unmaking — Tibet alongside the whole of China. When it ended in 1976, the immense majority of Tibet’s many thousands of monasteries had been destroyed, even the most remote ones. After it ended people started the slow work of picking up the pieces and rebuilding what they could. At this monastery, in 1983, people gathered to raise up new walls for a more modest monastery where the old one had stood. The next year they dug the woodblocks up from their hiding place and ceremonially returned them to the monastery’s temple. I am led to believe that it was an occasion of great joy and celebration for the entire community.
This monastery is only a shade of what it must have been. Where once there were three hundred monks, now there are three. Where once it had been a large complex complete with its own printing press, now it is an empty courtyard with tall grass surrounded by five dormitory buildings and a temple. At full capacity it could maybe sleep eighty. And now the woodblocks sit, unused, rarely seen, waiting for a day when once again two men will sit across from each other, spreading ink, rolling paper, and producing copies of scripture for others to read.
Finally the monk and I just stand there in silence under the slanting morning light, imagining what must have been, glad that something of the past still remains. We both smile at each other. His smile is kind and sad. We shake hands. I go to my room to finish packing my bags and then walk across fields strewn with garbage, a light morning mist evaporating off of them, till I reach the main road.
I start hitching to Derge, though I’m worried what I will find there. A few nights back a skinny, young, frenetic Chinese businessman came to the monastery. He wore mala beads around his neck and enthusiastically pushed cigarettes on everyone. I was the only one who accepted them. He explained to us that as a businessman — in this case a developer of hotels in Tibetan Sichuan — it was important to have a religion. After telling us about his service in the Chinese Special Forces and a trip to Ireland to engage in joint training with U.S. soldiers, he learned that I was going to Derge. “No, don’t go there,” he told me. “It is like a war zone. Go to a different place. Not Dege. It is not safe.”
I make it to Manigango, a crossroads town between Ganzi, Derge, and Shiqu. An older Tibetan nomad woman comes up to me in the pullout where I’m trying to hitch. She speaks only Tibetan, and every time I say “Derge” she shakes her head emphatically and indicates that I should follow her the other direction. She’s wearing pink Converse sneakers, an elaborately embroidered heavy robe with one arm out of its sleeve, and the most fantastic hat I’ve ever seen, a riot of colors and tassels and golden dragons. I reckon she’s in her forties. Her face is weathered and creased but still perfectly proportioned and beautiful. Eventually she impresses two schoolchildren to tell me in Chinese not to go to Derge. We all stand on the side of the road for fifteen minutes until they lose interest and wander away.
A Chinese construction crew eventually picks me up and we drive fast up a broad, smooth road into the mountains. By the lake called Yilhun Lhatso by the Tibetans and Xinluhai Lake by the Chinese we stop to take selfies. We drive onward, packed close together in the cab of a pickup truck. At some point we suddenly divert from the wide paved road onto a narrow dirt track. The track takes us up over the mountains where the snow is already thick and then back down, where the fancy road recommences. Soon a miles-long tunnel will connect the two roads and the scenic pass will be obsolete. Once that happens it won’t be any trouble at all to get to Derge.
The nice construction workers drop me off on the side of the road and tell me the town is only a few kilometers away. I walk past great gravel yards, a monstrous concrete batch plant with angry dogs, then through the outskirts of Derge, past auto shops and half-built highrises and storerooms filled with dry goods or lightbulbs or melons or bolts of fabric. The press of town closes around me. Derge is built in what we could call either a shallow canyon or a very steep valley. The buildings elbow each other at odd angles. The streets bend and narrow down. Police drive by with sirens blaring. A crew of stonelayers is in the middle of re-cobbling the sidewalks today. Chinese and Tibetans throng the center of town. Everyone stares at the foreigner. I see a blue-and-white sign that declares, “Foreigner-Approved Hotels: Hotel Shambala, Hotel Himalaya.” Both are right next to the sign and look prohibitively expensive.
Eventually I find an empty restaurant and get lunch: vegetables that I select from a refrigerator and give to the lady to boil in a spicy broth. Two young girls are loudly playing with a doll by the door. I haven’t eaten since tsampa at dawn. By now it’s four in the afternoon, and I’m ravenous when the food arrives. After eating I read in the Lonely Planet guide that there’s a tiny hotel with rooms for fifty kuai that accepts foreigners. The proprietress doesn’t recognize the street name, but she calls someone on her cell phone and eventually points me in the right direction. On my way out the door she comes up to me with a ten-kuai note and asks me if I might trade an American dollar for it. I’m in a bad mood though, so I say I don’t have any American kuai. On the street the hundred-and-six dollars in my breast pocket immediately seem evil, tainted by my lie.
The hotel turns out to be right on the main drag — I’d passed it coming into town. They immediately give me a room with two twin beds in it, and I spend half an hour with a twelve-year-old girl trying to input my passport details into a foreigner registration program that was built with Windows 95. I go back to my room and smoke cigarettes and read Joyce’s Dubliners in dim, reflected light.
When I go out for dinner I first head back to the shop where I got lunch and hand the lady my last one-dollar bill. Derge isn’t a warzone. It’s loud and filled with police, but people smile at you on the street. I find delicious fresh noodles and a half-liter of warm lager, and I write in my journal.
In the Derge Printing Press (parkhang in Tibetan) the afternoon sun spills through a lightwell and onto a balcony where an old layman and a young monk furiously print a text. They sit across from each other, each straddling the wood paddle that’s meticulously engraved with mirrored Tibetan characters. The old man’s seat is a few inches higher, and the woodblock slopes down to where the young monk sits. Both sit on haphazard cushions and rock back and forth in meditative exertion.
It goes like this. They have just finished printing ten copies front and back off of one woodblock. The monk sets the used woodblock on the stack of other used ones. The old man’s left hand grabs the handle of the next woodblock in the series and sets it between them. With his right hand he dips a cloth sponge into a basin of ink and wets down the fresh woodblock. The monk with his left hand grabs a sheet of paper from a large stack and both men deftly smooth and straighten it onto the block. The monk takes his roller in both hands and firmly rolls it up and down the paper. Then he sets the roller aside and takes the printed sheet and lays it across his left thigh. The layman carefully applies another coat of ink to the block. The monk grabs another sheet of paper and they repeat the process.
After ten sheets have been printed they flip the block over and begin printing the reverses of each sheet. Now when the monk finishes rolling out a sheet they both lift the completed page up to a drying rack. Then the monk snatches another sheet from his thigh and they register it to the block. After they have completed the ten pages they set the used woodblock aside and take up the next one. The process of printing ten copies front and back can’t take more than two minutes of silent, sweating work. Occasionally one tells a joke and they laugh. Another man pours them fresh butter tea from a big kettle and eventually takes the place of the monk. Your devoted correspondent watches them, entranced, for at least half an hour.
When I finally tear myself from the spectacle, I say thank you in Tibetan, guadrenche. They stop their work and call me back. Don’t I want to take some pictures? I do, actually, but I had become so reverent of their labors that I was too embarrassed to ask. I thank them again and take a video.
I spend most of the afternoon wandering the printing house. It looks and is laid out just like a Tibetan monastery. But aside from a prayer hall on the first floor the entire space is given over to the printing operation. Much of the building is taken up by a library of over 210,000 woodblocks. According to my guidebook, more than seventy percent of Tibet’s religious library is contained within the building, ready to be printed and posted anywhere in the world. I find it incredible: a library to generate libraries.
In one of the wings there is a mandala-printing studio. These are made printed off woodblocks that measure up to about three feet by two feet. The men there work each on their own project, carefully spreading the ink, laying the paper down, and then pressing on the paper with what looks like a big loose ball of yak hair. I wander through this room, stooped from the low ceiling, admiring the works drying on racks. Meanwhile the men take a break to watch a music video on one of their iPhones.
I wander further through the press. One man is sorting through giant piles of printed papers, assembling each set in the right order. Another is setting out freshly printed editions to dry on banisters along the lightwell. A few older men wander the premises with brooms and stick-mounted dustpans, stirring up the motes that catch the beams of sunlight. A Chinese family rushes through the place, urgently trying to see all of the sights of Derge in a single afternoon. In a light-drenched little room facing the main courtyard a portly Tibetan in nomad’s robes sorts through a great pile of what I assume are order forms and shipping receipts. He’s halfway through filling a massive leger with cramped Tibetan script.
There’s a steep stairway leading to the roof of the press. From up there I take a lot of pictures of picturesque Derge, a sweet little town nestled between great peaks, swiftly undergoing a transformation into a small Chinese city complete with bland high rises and an army barracks.
As I leave the printing complex I say some prayers for its wellbeing and continued existence. Then I snap some shots of the rows of woodblocks sitting ready on their shelves, even though there are signs everywhere saying not to.
I walk up above the old Tibetan quarter and sit in a field among yak pies and old soda cans to think about this place I have just been. It was not only incredibly beautiful, but it gave me hope as a book-lover. If this tradition can survive even in today’s China, then literature and stories and libraries and books can survive any blow. I think about my favorite libraries: Fort Bragg High School Library, where I first read “A Perfect Day For Bananafish”; Widener Library at Harvard, where Virginia used to work keeping the books properly shelved and ordered so students and scholars could find them; the National Public Library in Petersburg which card catalogs are not yet entirely digitized; my professor James’s apartment, crammed full of Armenica and Iranica and Russian vols. and even a first edition of Fahrenheit 451inscribed to his grandfather. I think of that book, of when Montag learns that there are people who have memorized books in order to save them from the bookburning “firemen,” and that these people have vowed to pass great literature down orally until that time when the world is ready again for books. Is there any more hopeful image for our day and age?
Fewer than seven percent of Americans have read a poem in the last year. We are too busy with our Youtube videos and Buzzfeed listicles and video games and mind-numbing jobs to sit down and read a poem. Maybe we’ve also fallen out of the habit. Forty-seven percent of Americans watched the Super Bowl this year: a five-hour event where adult men concuss each other for sport. Now we know that playing professional football often leads to Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, a disease in which brain tissue degenerates resulting in a condition quite like dementia. Sometimes it can seem that our culture as a whole suffers from CTE, filled as it is with all the symptoms: memory loss, aggression, confusion, and depression. It can be a hard time to be alive.
The Word is not dead, though. It will never die, not so long as those of us who care about it keep reading, keep writing, keep telling stories. The Derge Print House, cheerily turning out copies of ancient sutras and commentaries, is evidence of this. If hard times come we’ll bury the woodblocks again, and we’ll remember where they’re buried. We’ll look forward to that day when we bring them back into the temple, alive, verbose, triumphant.