I recently went to a bookshop again and bought five books. I felt quite extravagant and felt a renewed sense of excitement for reading.
There’s something so beautiful about the feel of a book that I will never be able to get with my kindle. I want to hold them and feel the weight of the words in my hands. I want to run my hands over the cover when I’m not paying attention. I want to bookmark and highlight words that touch my soul. I want to feel that feeling when you’re done with a book, and you close it, you sigh, and things feel right with the world. I like knowing it’s where it belongs, in my hand, no matter how old the books is. I like knowing I am where I am supposed to be, a book in hand.
I love knowing, with used books, that they have histories, past lovers, past admirers, past lives, past loves. They have been loved and touched. They are connecting me and their former selves. They will be different to me than they were to their previous owners. There will be new wrinkles, new folds, new lines. They will be new to me, no matter how old. I will read new things in their lines each time I stare at the print.
They remind me of friendship, they love me when I pick them up, they forgive me for being away so long and we jump right back to where we left off. We forgive each other, pick up where we left off, and part knowing that some friendships will just endure no matter what. They love me for me and they never ask for more than I am, more than I can give. Yet they challenge me, make me see things I have never seen. They change me. I am a different person when I put the book down, when I am done with the first chapter, the middle and the end. They don’t falter or waver, they always pick up the phone when I call, and they stay with me throughout it all. They are forgiving, they are loving and beautiful. They can make me cry and laugh. They will bear the marks of my tears on their pages forever. They will always bear a trace of myself, my past selves, of me on them.
They mean so much to me, they have changed my life so profoundly, and I love them for it. I would characterize my relationship with them as love. Because I love them for it. I love that they can only represent themselves, their words, but at the same time so much more. I love the feel of the pages, the smell of the ink and must, the sight of the bold letters on the creamy pages, the sound of pages turning and covers closing, the taste of apprehension wetting my tongue as I peel back the cover on my next adventure.