From a June 2005 post about the movie Pleasantville:
Is the "ivory tower" of the study of the humanities reality or unreality?
Are our everyday lives ("the trivial round, the common task") just black and white?
Northrop Frye said that an arts degree was useless; and that if it wasn't, then it wasn't worth much. Is reality just when we write about the books we're reading, or when we post pictures of our cats or our family trips? This is one place where I think Frye forgot something: although our conversations about the "real stuff" (like literature) may bring the colours into our everyday existence, it doesn't necessarily follow that everything else is black and white or unreal. I prefer to think that because we have these opportunities to think and talk in living colour, the colour finds its way into the rest of our lives rather than being something separate.
And for those who are always trying to define what a living book is, here is a suggestion: "a book that makes you think in colours."