I’ve spent so many evenings hunched over vellum that the mere idea of a pixelated copy feels like a thief of nuance. A digital reproduction can mimic the lines, but it misses the way ink pools, the slight waviness of hand, the scent of old oak. Those details are the soul of a manuscript, not a point count. I suppose a faithful scan is better than a poorly copied copy, but even then, it’s a shadow, not the thing itself. The digital age can preserve, yes, but it can never truly honor the texture, the weight, the tiny imperfections that tell a story. So I’m wary, but I will not deny the utility of modern tools—they’re just… not the manuscript itself.