“This is a printing office. Crossroads of civilization, refuge of all the arts against the ravages of time, armory of fearless truth against whispering rumor, incessant trumpet of trade. From this place words may fly abroad: not to perish on waves of sound, not to vary with the writer’s hand, but fixed in time, having been verified in proof. Friend, you stand on sacred ground. This is a printing office.” —Beatrice Warde