Fahrenheit 451 may burn a paper but this incandescent measurement of heat never could annihilate books, though the attempts were numerous.
Books always have risen up from its ashes with Phoenician dexterity to be the one of the prime signifiers of human ascendance. The modern dystopian world however has begun to ask questions unanswered hitherto- whom does one write for? Are books the culmination of cerebral process which lurks in the author’s mind or give the birth of a reader’s foetus; isn’t there any text outside the text? Does mere adoption of a nom-de-plume can conceal or erase the thousand desires, a women author may be flushed with, like a palimpsest.
We, at Papyrus are trying to discover this labyrinthine ally, by crafting our books to peel the layers of the myths we live by, the rights of passage which inspires a poetic syntax or through the depiction of a xerophytic cult’s invasion which is forcing us to live on borrowed times; well, the journey has just begun…