“Art is never finished, only abandoned,” Leonardo Da Vinci said and there is no greater proof of this than the creation of the book itself. By virtue of being print and bound, of being run off thousands of copies at a clip, the book appears to be an object that reaches completion by virtue of having a beginning, middle and end sewn together between two covers. But this is an illusion of the physical world, one forged like iron into steel, into an unbreakable convention of industry rather than the limitless boundaries of the medium. Who would accept the primacy of the book if it were acknowledged that at any given point, the author could revise its contents in part or whole?
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