JOI's father delivers the garage monologue (p. 166)
Facts and figures and curved glass and those elbow-straining books of yours’ lightless pages are going to seem flat by comparison. Static. Dead and white and flat.
Context
Inside the trance-doctrine aria, the father dismisses the son's optics — "curved glass" — as flat and dead next to embodied tennis. The novel spends the rest of its length reversing the verdict: curved glass ends up producing the most un-static, un-dead artifact in the book. The odd possessive "books of yours' lightless pages" is as written.