Writing, Phaedrus, has this strange quality, and is very like
painting; for the creatures of painting stand like living beings, but
if one asks them a question, they preserve a solemn silence. And so it
is with written words; you might think they spoke as if they had
intelligence, but if you question them, wishing to know about their
sayings, they always say only one and the same thing. And every word,
when once it is written, is bandied about, alike among those who
understand and those who have no interest in it, and it knows not to
whom to speak or not to speak; when ill-treated or unjustly reviled it
always needs its father to help it; for it has no power to protect or
help itself. [Italics added.]
(Plato, 428/427-34 BCE, Phaedrus, 275D-E) … brought to my attention by Brian D. McLaren’s book The Last Word and The Word After That.