Daniel sent us this one — he wants to know about the history of Hebrew printing. Not the Gutenberg story everyone knows, but specifically the invention of printing for Hebrew, with its right-to-left layout and unique glyphs, including the Rashi script that appears in rabbinic commentaries. When did that actually start? Was it concurrent with general printing development, or did it require a dedicated movement among Jews who relied on it to preserve and transport knowledge, especially given the reality of book burnings and ideological attacks? It's a great question — the kind where the technology and the survival of a textual tradition are completely tangled up together.
It's exactly the sort of thing I love digging into. Before we jump in though, I should mention — DeepSeek V four Pro is writing our script today. So credit where it's due on the research heavy lifting.
Alright, so where do we even start with this? Because I think most people assume Hebrew printing just sort of happened alongside everything else, but that's not quite right, is it?
It's not. And the dates tell the story immediately. Gutenberg's Bible comes out around fourteen fifty-five. The first dated Hebrew printed book appears in fourteen seventy-five — that's twenty years later. But here's the thing — there may have been undated Hebrew printing even earlier, possibly as early as fourteen sixty-nine, in Rome. The very first Hebrew incunabula, which is the fancy term for books printed before fifteen hundred, were produced by Jewish printers working with Christian printing houses, or by Christian printers who saw a market opportunity.
Not where I would have guessed.
You'd think maybe Spain, or somewhere in the Ashkenazi world. But Rome had an established Jewish community, it had the printing technology arriving from Germany, and it had scholars who immediately saw the potential. The first dated Hebrew book is a commentary on the Torah by Rashi — printed in Reggio di Calabria, in the toe of Italy, in fourteen seventy-five, by a printer named Abraham ben Garton.
Wait, the very first dated Hebrew book is Rashi's commentary? That's almost poetic. Rashi is the most foundational commentator, and he's the first one printed.
It is poetic. And it tells you something about what the market wanted. This wasn't a luxury item for collectors. Rashi's commentary was essential for study. Every Jewish community needed it. So the first printers went straight for the thing that would sell.
Who were these early printers? I'm imagining a rabbi with a printing press in his basement.
Not far off in some cases. The pioneers fall into a few families and individuals. You've got the Soncino family — Joshua Solomon Soncino, and later his nephew Gershom Soncino. They operated in multiple Italian cities, and Gershom was a fascinating figure. He printed Hebrew books, but also Latin, Greek, and Italian works. He was a true Renaissance printer who happened to specialize in Hebrew type. Then there's the big name — Daniel Bomberg.
That name I know. The Bomberg Talmud.
Daniel Bomberg was a Christian printer from Antwerp who set up shop in Venice. Between fifteen seventeen and fifteen twenty-three, he printed the first complete set of the Babylonian Talmud. This was monumental. He established the standard layout that we still use today — the Talmud text in the center, Rashi on the inner margin, and the Tosafot commentaries on the outer margin. That pagination, that visual structure, it's Bomberg's invention. Every Talmud printed since traces its layout back to Bomberg's Venice print shop.
A Christian printer in Venice sets the standard for how the Talmud looks for the next five hundred years. There's something wonderful about that. Was he doing it out of scholarly interest, or was it purely commercial?
A mix, I think. Venice was a major center of printing, and the Jewish market was substantial. Bomberg secured an exclusive privilege from the Venetian Senate to print Hebrew books, and he hired Jewish scholars as editors and typesetters. He was a businessman, but he clearly respected the material and the expertise required. He produced something like two hundred Hebrew titles over his career.
We've got Italy as the center of Hebrew printing. But Daniel's question gets at something darker — the book burnings. How much was printing a response to the vulnerability of manuscripts?
The timeline is striking. The first major European book burning of Jewish texts happens in Paris in twelve forty-two — twenty-four cartloads of Talmud manuscripts burned in the public square. That's two hundred years before printing. And it kept happening. In fifteen fifty-three, Pope Julius the Third ordered the burning of the Talmud across Italy. In Rome, on Rosh Hashanah, they burned thousands of Hebrew books. Bomberg's own printed Talmuds went into the flames.
Printing arrives, and instead of solving the problem, it initially just means there are more books to burn.
Yes, and that's actually an important point. Printing didn't end the vulnerability — it changed the equation. A manuscript is unique. You burn it, it's gone forever. A printed book exists in hundreds of copies. You can burn a pile of them in Rome, and there are still copies in Constantinople, in Cairo, in Krakow. The resilience is built into the medium.
That's the shift from scarcity to redundancy. A manuscript culture depends on the survival of individual objects. A print culture depends on distribution. You can't unprint something once it's circulated.
And the Jewish communities understood this immediately. By fourteen ninety-two — the year of the Spanish expulsion — there were Hebrew printing presses operating in Italy, Spain, Portugal, and the Ottoman Empire. When the Jews were expelled from Spain, the printing press went with them. The Soncino family relocated to Constantinople and continued printing. The knowledge wasn't just preserved in people's heads — it was being mechanically reproduced and distributed across the diaspora.
Let me ask about the technical challenge, because Daniel mentioned the right-to-left layout and the unique glyphs. How hard was it to adapt the printing press for Hebrew?
It was a significant challenge. The early printers had to cut Hebrew type by hand — each letter as a separate piece of metal. Hebrew has twenty-two letters, but five of them have different forms when they appear at the end of a word, so you've got twenty-seven base forms. Then you add the vowel points — the niqqud — and if you're printing a prayer book or a Bible, you need the cantillation marks too, the te'amim, which indicate how to chant the text.
The typesetter's case for Hebrew is much more complex than for Latin.
A full Hebrew font with vowels and cantillation marks can require over a hundred distinct pieces of type. And they have to align precisely — if a vowel point is slightly off, it changes the meaning or makes the text unreadable. The early printers solved this through incredible craftsmanship. If you look at a Bomberg Bible or a Soncino prayer book, the alignment is nearly perfect.
Then there's the Rashi script problem. Daniel specifically mentioned that.
So Rashi script isn't actually Rashi's handwriting. It's a semi-cursive Sephardic script that was used in the fifteenth century. The printers in Italy chose it as the typeface for rabbinic commentaries to visually distinguish them from the biblical text, which was printed in square Assyrian script. The first appearance of Rashi script in print is that very first dated Hebrew book from fourteen seventy-five — the Rashi commentary printed by Abraham ben Garton. He cut a completely separate typeface for it.
From day one, Hebrew printing required multiple typefaces. It's not like they started simple and added complexity later. They jumped straight into the deep end.
And this is where the story connects to something bigger — the role of Jewish converts and Christian Hebraists. Some of the earliest Hebrew type was cut by Christian goldsmiths working from manuscripts provided by Jewish scholars. But in some cases, the expertise came from Jews who had converted to Christianity, sometimes under duress, and who brought their knowledge of Hebrew calligraphy into the printing shops.
That's a complicated legacy. The knowledge transfer happens through persecution.
And the book burnings are part of the same pattern. There's a paradox here — the Christian authorities are burning Jewish books while Christian printers are producing them. The Church's relationship to Hebrew printing was ambivalent. On one hand, there was genuine scholarly interest — the humanists of the Renaissance wanted to read the Hebrew Bible in the original. On the other hand, there was the theological anxiety that the Talmud contained blasphemies against Christianity. So you get this push-pull dynamic where Hebrew books are being printed, censored, burned, and reprinted, sometimes in the same city in the same decade.
The censored part is interesting. I've seen old Hebrew books with passages blacked out by Church censors.
Yes, and that was a whole profession. The Church appointed official censors who would go through Hebrew books and expurgate passages they considered offensive. The printers sometimes left blank spaces where the censored text would have been, so the reader knew something had been removed. And in some cases, the censored passages were copied back in by hand by the book's owner.
The readers were actively restoring what the censors took out. That's a form of resistance through literacy.
And it brings us back to Daniel's point about ideological continuity. Printing created a distributed network of knowledge that was very hard to destroy completely. But it also created a new vulnerability — standardization. If you control the printing presses, you can control what gets printed. That's why the location of Hebrew printing presses matters so much. When they were in Italy, they were subject to papal authority. When they moved to the Ottoman Empire, they had much more freedom.
Let's talk about the Ottoman period. You mentioned the Soncinos moved to Constantinople.
Yes, and Constantinople became a major center. But the real explosion happened in the sixteenth century. Thessaloniki, which had a large Sephardic community after the expulsion, became a major printing hub. So did Safed in the Galilee, for a brief but important period. The first Hebrew book printed in Asia was produced in Safed in fifteen seventy-seven — it was a commentary on the Book of Esther.
Safed, that's where the Kabbalists were.
The Safed press was associated with the circle of Rabbi Isaac Luria, the great Kabbalist. They printed mystical texts and prayer books that incorporated Lurianic meditations. These books spread throughout the Jewish world and shaped how Jews prayed for centuries. And the press in Safed only operated for about ten years before it shut down, but its influence was enormous.
You've got these brief, intense bursts of printing in specific places, and then the books circulate for generations. The press doesn't need to be permanent for the impact to be permanent.
And this pattern repeats. There's a Hebrew press in Amsterdam in the seventeenth century that becomes incredibly important — that's where Menasseh ben Israel printed, and where Spinoza's circle was connected to printing. There's presses in Prague, in Krakow, in Lublin. Each one produces books that travel far beyond where they were printed.
What about movable type versus block printing? Did Hebrew ever use block printing, or did it go straight to movable type?
Straight to movable type, as far as we know. There's no surviving example of a Hebrew block book. The technology transfer from Gutenberg's shop to the Hebrew printers was direct — they adopted the same method of casting individual letters and setting them in a frame. The innovation wasn't in the printing mechanism, it was in the type design and the layout.
The layout challenge is interesting. Right-to-left typesetting, with multiple columns, with commentary wrapping around the main text. This is complex page design.
Bomberg's Talmud layout is a masterpiece of information design. You've got the Mishnah and Gemara in the center in square letters, Rashi on the inner margin in Rashi script, Tosafot on the outer margin in Rashi script, and then later editions add cross-references and additional commentaries in the margins. All of this is set by hand, line by line, in metal type. The compositor — the person arranging the type — had to be literate in Hebrew and familiar with the text to get it right.
Because you can't just set it mechanically — you have to know where the commentaries go and how they align with the main text.
And the compositors were often scholars in their own right. In Bomberg's shop, the chief editor was Rabbi Jacob ben Hayyim ibn Adonijah, who was a major scholar. He's the one who compiled the Masoretic notes and established the standard text of the Hebrew Bible that Bomberg printed. That edition, the Bomberg Rabbinic Bible, became the basis for virtually every Hebrew Bible printed since, including the one Martin Luther used for his German translation.
Wait, Luther used a Bomberg Bible for his translation?
There's a direct line from a Venetian Jewish printing house to the German Reformation. Luther used the second edition of the Bomberg Rabbinic Bible, printed in fifteen twenty-four to fifteen twenty-five. It included the Hebrew text, the Aramaic Targum, and the commentaries of Rashi, Ibn Ezra, and others. Luther couldn't read the commentaries — he didn't know enough Hebrew — but the text itself was the best available.
The irony of that is thick. The Church is burning Talmuds, and the man who's about to split the Church is using a Hebrew Bible printed by a Christian printer in Venice, with type designed by Jewish craftsmen, edited by Jewish scholars. The knowledge network is completely indifferent to the theological battles happening around it.
That's one of the things I find most compelling about this history. The technology creates connections that the ideology would prohibit. Bomberg wasn't trying to fuel the Reformation — he was trying to sell Bibles to Jews and Christian Hebraists. But the book had its own career. It ended up in Wittenberg, and the rest is history.
Let me pull us back to Daniel's specific framing, because he mentioned the pre-digitization era and the threat to ideological continuity. I think he's asking us to consider what printing meant for Jewish survival as a knowledge tradition.
It's hard to overstate. Before printing, Jewish learning was dependent on manuscripts. A community might have a single copy of the Talmud, if they were lucky. The rabbi would read from it, students would memorize, knowledge was transmitted orally and through laborious copying. The destruction of a single library could wipe out a community's entire textual foundation.
The Paris burning in twelve forty-two. The Spanish expulsion in fourteen ninety-two, where many manuscripts were lost or left behind. The Chmielnicki massacres in sixteen forty-eight and forty-nine, where entire communities were destroyed along with their books. The Nazi book burnings and the destruction of Jewish libraries across Europe. Each of these was a catastrophe for knowledge.
Printing changes the scale of the catastrophe.
After printing, no single fire, no single decree, can eliminate the text. You'd have to destroy every copy in every community, and by the sixteenth century, there are copies spread across Europe, North Africa, the Middle East. The text has become a distributed system.
Which is why book burnings become symbolic rather than effective. They're a statement of intent, not an actual elimination of knowledge.
And the Jewish communities understood this. They invested in printing not just as a commercial enterprise but as a strategy for preservation. The Soncino family explicitly saw their work as ensuring the survival of Jewish learning. Gershom Soncino wrote about this in his colophons — the notes printers would add at the end of books. He described his mission as spreading Torah and preserving the tradition.
That's a word I haven't heard in a while.
They're a goldmine for historians. The colophons in early Hebrew books often include the printer's name, the date, the location, and sometimes a statement of purpose. And sometimes they include details about the difficulties — wars, expulsions, financial troubles. The Soncino colophons are particularly rich. Gershom would sometimes write about the challenges of keeping the press going while moving from city to city.
It's like reading a blog post from the fifteenth century.
In a way, yes. And they reveal something important — these printers were not just technicians. They saw themselves as participants in the chain of transmission. The same chain described in Pirkei Avot — Moses received the Torah from Sinai and transmitted it to Joshua, and so on through the generations. Printers understood their role as a new link in that chain.
That's a theological framing of a technological act. Setting type becomes a sacred duty.
It connects to something Daniel hinted at in his question — the role of the scribe versus the printer. In Jewish law, a Torah scroll must be written by hand by a trained scribe. That hasn't changed. You can't print a kosher Torah scroll. So printing didn't replace the scribe for ritual purposes. But for study, for prayer books, for commentaries, for legal codes — printing democratized access. A printed Talmud could be owned by an individual scholar, rather than being chained to a desk in a single synagogue.
Chained to a desk — literally, in some cases. Medieval libraries had chained books to prevent theft because they were so valuable.
And printing broke the chain, literally and figuratively. Knowledge became portable, affordable, and replicable. This is the revolution that Gutenberg gets credit for, but it's worth remembering that Hebrew printing was part of that revolution from almost the very beginning. The Jewish world adopted the technology within two decades of its invention.
Then pushed it in specific directions because of specific needs. The multi-commentary layout, the Rashi script, the vowel points — these weren't just aesthetic choices. They were solutions to the problem of how you study a text that has accumulated centuries of commentary.
That's the key insight. The Talmud is not just a book — it's a conversation. The main text, the commentaries, the super-commentaries, the cross-references — they all interact. The printed page had to represent that conversation visually. Bomberg's layout solved that problem so effectively that it became the standard for half a millennium.
What about earlier? Before Bomberg, how were the first printers handling the layout of complex texts?
The very earliest Hebrew printed books were actually simpler. The fourteen seventy-five Rashi commentary was just the biblical text and Rashi's commentary, set in two different typefaces but without the elaborate page design that came later. The complexity evolved over the first few decades. By fourteen ninety, you start seeing more sophisticated layouts. The Naples press, for example, printed a Hebrew Bible with the commentary of Rabbi David Kimhi arranged around the text. That was a step toward the full Talmud layout.
So we've got Rome, Reggio di Calabria, Naples — southern Italy was the cradle of Hebrew printing.
And then Venice takes over as the major center. By the early fifteen hundreds, Venice is the undisputed capital of Hebrew printing. Bomberg is there, but there are other printers too — Marco Antonio Giustiniani, Alvise Bragadin. They competed with each other, which drove quality up and prices down.
Competition among Christian printers producing Hebrew books. The market was that robust.
The Jewish population of Venice wasn't even that large — they were confined to the Ghetto after fifteen sixteen. But Venice was a trading hub, and books printed there were exported across the Mediterranean and into Northern Europe. The Venetian Hebrew presses were serving a global market.
Let me ask about Eastern Europe, because that's where the largest Jewish populations eventually were. When did printing reach there?
Prague gets a Hebrew press in fifteen twelve — it's the first one north of the Alps. Krakow follows in fifteen thirty-four. But the real explosion in Eastern European Hebrew printing comes in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The Slavuta press, founded in seventeen ninety-one in what's now Ukraine, became famous for its editions of the Talmud. The Vilna press, operated by the Romm family from seventeen ninety-nine onward, eventually produced the most widely used edition of the Talmud — the Vilna Shas, which is still the standard today.
The Vilna Shas. That's the edition you see in yeshivas everywhere.
The Romm family printed it from eighteen eighty to eighteen eighty-six. It incorporated the commentaries of generations of scholars, and the pagination became the universal reference system. When someone cites a Talmud page, they're citing the Romm edition's page, even if they're using a different printing. That's how dominant it became.
The standardization that started with Bomberg reaches its final form in Vilna in the eighteen eighties. Four centuries of refinement.
The Romm edition was printed in an environment of active censorship. The Russian Empire had its own censors who reviewed Hebrew books. The printers had to navigate that while still producing a text that scholars would trust. It was a constant negotiation between the authorities and the community.
Which brings us back to the book burning question. Daniel asked whether printing was a response to ideological attacks. I think the answer is that printing wasn't invented as a response — the technology came from outside — but it was adopted and adapted with extraordinary speed precisely because the vulnerability of manuscripts was so clear.
I agree with that framing. The Jewish printers of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries weren't inventing the technology from scratch, but they were early adopters who immediately understood what it meant for the survival of their tradition. The Soncino family, Abraham ben Garton, the editors in Bomberg's shop — they saw the printing press as a form of insurance against the next fire, the next expulsion, the next decree.
We're still reading books that trace their lineage back to those presses.
The text you study in a modern yeshiva, the layout of the page, the typefaces — all of it descends from decisions made by printers in Italy and Venice and Vilna. The technology has changed — we have digital editions now, we have the Sefaria database with hyperlinked texts — but the fundamental design of the Jewish book was established in the age of incunabula.
That's the second time you've used that word. Define it for people who haven't spent their lives in libraries.
Books printed before fifteen hundred. The infancy of printing. From the Latin for "cradle" or "swaddling clothes." There are about a hundred and forty known Hebrew incunabula titles surviving today, though some are fragmentary. Each one is a window into that moment when the technology was new and the possibilities were still being explored.
A hundred and forty titles. That's a small enough number that you could, in theory, study every single one.
There's a whole field of Hebrew bibliography that catalogs and studies these early printed books. These scholars can look at a fragment of a page and identify the printer, the date, the location, based on the typeface and the layout. The typefaces themselves are like fingerprints — each printer had their own.
The typefaces as fingerprints. That's a nice image. It also means that the history of Hebrew printing is written in metal, not just in ink. The physical type itself carries the story.
Some of that type still exists. There are collections of early Hebrew type in museums — the British Library has some, and there are examples in Jerusalem at the Israel Museum. You can see the individual metal letters, some of them worn down from thousands of impressions. The craftsmen who cut them were working at a tiny scale, with Hebrew letters that have very fine strokes and precise proportions.
I'm imagining a goldsmith squinting at a manuscript, trying to reproduce the calligraphy in metal, in reverse, at a few millimeters high.
Doing it well enough that the printed page looked beautiful. The aesthetic standards were high from the beginning. Jewish readers were accustomed to beautifully written manuscripts, and the printers had to match that quality or the market would reject their product. There's a famous case of a printer in Ferrara in the fifteen hundreds who produced a prayer book with such poor type that the rabbis of the city declared it unfit. The printer had to redo it.
Rabbis as quality control. That's a role we don't usually associate with religious authorities, but it makes perfect sense. If the text is sacred, the production quality matters.
Accuracy matters even more. A typo in a novel is annoying. A typo in a Torah commentary can change the law. So the early printers employed proofreaders — magihim in Hebrew — who were scholars. They would check every page before it was printed. The colophons sometimes name the proofreader alongside the printer. It was considered an important role.
This is a whole ecosystem. Typesetters, proofreaders, censors, editors, the financiers who put up the capital, the merchants who distributed the books. Hebrew printing wasn't a niche operation — it was an industry.
A substantial one. By the sixteenth century, the Hebrew book trade was international. A book printed in Venice could be sold in Cairo, in Krakow, in Amsterdam. Jewish merchants carried books along trade routes. The capital and the expertise were distributed across the diaspora.
Which is another form of resilience. The network isn't just distributing the books — it's distributing the means of production. If one press gets shut down, the financier can fund another one somewhere else.
That's exactly what happened. When the papal restrictions tightened in Italy in the mid-sixteenth century, the center of gravity shifted to the Ottoman Empire and to Northern Europe. The expertise moved with it. Jewish typesetters and proofreaders were mobile professionals who could set up shop wherever the conditions were favorable.
Daniel mentioned the Rashi script specifically. I want to circle back to that, because I think there's something interesting about the fact that a script originally used for one purpose — distinguishing commentary from text — has survived in print for over five hundred years and is still used today.
It's a remarkable example of path dependence. The printers in fifteenth-century Italy chose Rashi script for rabbinic commentaries because it was a recognizable semi-cursive that their readers associated with that function in manuscripts. Once that choice was made and standardized by Bomberg and others, it became self-reinforcing. Every subsequent printer used Rashi script for commentaries because that's what readers expected. And now, five hundred and fifty years later, digital fonts include Rashi script, and Jewish books still use it for the same purpose.
Even though almost no one handwrites in Rashi script anymore. It's a typographic convention that outlived the handwriting it was based on.
The original Rashi script was a Sephardic semi-cursive used in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. It wasn't unique to Rashi's commentary — it was just a common script for non-biblical texts. But once it became associated with Rashi in print, the association stuck. Now people call it Rashi script even though Rashi himself never used it — he lived in eleventh-century France and wrote in a completely different style.
The name itself is a historical accident, preserved by print technology.
And it's a nice illustration of how printing doesn't just preserve texts — it preserves and standardizes the visual conventions around texts. The look of the Jewish book, the architecture of the page, the typographic hierarchy — all of that was locked in by the printers of the incunabula period and the early sixteenth century.
Let me ask you something forward-looking, since Daniel's prompt has a "pre-digitization" framing. We're now in a world where Sefaria has digitized the entire Jewish library, where you can search across centuries of commentary with a keystroke. Does that break the Bomberg layout? Does the visual architecture that served print for five hundred years survive the transition to the screen?
That's a fascinating question. Sefaria and similar platforms are not trying to reproduce the printed page visually — they're reorganizing the information into a database where texts are linked hypertextually. You click on a verse and it shows you all the commentaries that reference it, regardless of where they would appear on a printed page. The spatial relationships that Bomberg established — this commentary on the inner margin, that one on the outer margin — those don't exist in a digital environment.
Something is lost.
Something is gained. The spatial layout of the printed Talmud page is a powerful cognitive tool. Scholars know where to look for Rashi because it's always in the same place. The physical position of the text on the page becomes part of how you navigate the information. But the digital version makes connections visible that would be invisible in print — you can see every commentary that cites a particular verse, across the entire corpus, instantly.
It's a different kind of literacy. The printed page trained generations of scholars to think spatially about text. The screen trains a different cognitive habit — associative, search-driven.
I think we're still in the middle of that transition. The Vilna Shas layout is five hundred years old. The Sefaria interface is maybe fifteen years old. We don't know yet what the long-term effects will be on how people study and think. But I will say this — the fact that the transition is happening so smoothly, that you can have a yeshiva student with a printed Talmud on one side and an iPad with Sefaria on the other, suggests that the tradition is adaptable. It's been adaptable since the first Hebrew printer set type in Rome in the fourteen sixties.
Adaptable, but also conservative. The scribe is still essential for the Torah scroll. The printed book is still the standard for daily study in most communities. Digital is a supplement, not a replacement — at least for now.
That's consistent with the whole history we've been discussing. Hebrew printing didn't replace the manuscript tradition — it added a new layer. The scribe remained essential for ritual objects. The manuscript remained the prestige format for certain kinds of books well into the age of print. Jewish textual culture has always been multi-format.
Which is another form of resilience. No single point of failure.
That's the thread that runs through this whole story. From the first printed Rashi commentary in fourteen seventy-five, through the book burnings and expulsions, through the censorship and the migrations, the Jewish textual tradition survived because it was distributed, because it was adaptable, and because the people who produced the books understood that they were doing something more than commerce. They were ensuring that the conversation would continue.
And now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: During the Cold War, Eritrea's Red Sea coast recorded katabatic wind gusts of two hundred eight miles per hour — the fastest non-tornadic wind ever measured at low altitude.
...right.
a lot of wind.
The question that stays with me from all of this is what the next layer will be. If manuscripts were the first layer, and print was the second, and digital is the third — what does the fourth look like? And will the Bomberg layout, or something like it, survive into whatever comes next?
The text will survive. The layout might not. But the conversation — that's not going anywhere.
This has been My Weird Prompts. Thanks to our producer Hilbert Flumingtop. You can find every episode at myweirdprompts dot com.
If you've got a question you want us to dig into, send it our way. We'll see what we can find.
