It is a mistake to think that books have come to stay. The human race did without them for thousands of years and may decide to do without them again.
“The faint damp wind that, ere the even, blows
Piling the west with many a tawny sheaf,
Then when the last glad wavering hours are mown
Sigheth and dies because the day is sped;
This wind is like her and the listless air
Wherewith she goeth by beneath the trees,
The trees that mock her with their scarlet stain.”
Ezra Pound | “Canzon: The Yearly Slain”