Salman Rushdie

A Sanskrit epic as long as the Ramayana, written by the woman who grew a city from seeds, whispered its citizens their lives, and at two hundred and forty-seven sealed the poem in a pot for whoever came after.

An ocean whose waters are stories, polluted by a cult of silence, fed from a wellspring that must not be dammed — the library as a sea, which is the only form that can hold every tale at once.