I'm a bit of a nerd. My email is a Shakespear reference, while other women sigh dreamily at Gerard Butler, I have crushes on Charlie Chaplin and Mr. Spock from Star Trek. The only thing Gerard Butler has impressed me with is that he was in 300, a movie based off of a Graphic Novel. My biggest dorky obsession, though? Books. And god, it's not even just reading them. Don't get me wrong, I love reading them. However, when my mother bought me a collection of HG Wells stories for christmas, I was giddy with excitement, turning the heavy tome over and over in my hands, feeling the soft leather of the spine, the indentation of the cover title. I flipped it open and inhaled the scent of freshly printed pages like they were a hot batch of chocolate chip cookies. It was beautiful.
I like old books in particular, I collect them actually. I have books ranging from the 1940's all the way back to a Hanns Christan Anderson from 1879. And buying them is almost like a sickness to me. My chest actually aches at the sight of shelves lined with cracking and faded spines in a second hand shop. My knees feel slightly weak upon spotting a table at an antique market, it's foldable metal legs groaning under the gold mine of yellowing pages and fraying hardback covers.
When I find one I especially like- "oh god, a Lewis Caroll collection from 1932!"- I pick it up with a careful reverence that would suggest it were made of glass. Then, I flip it open slowly, one hand supporting the spine like one supports the head of an infant. I find the date and mutter under my breath, eyes wide and gleaming. Then, I flip through some of the pages, running my fingers delicately over the type, feeling the residue of old paper cling to my skin.
Books are beautiful. I have one, a collection of poems, where each page was individually put in, and each illustration was done on rice paper and glued onto the pages. But most importantly, when I feel the weight of a book in my hands,old or new, I feel like I'm holding knowledge, artwork woven in words, or even someone's history and memories. That same book I mentioned above came with a hand written not on the inside cover. "To Ada, from Papa-Christmas, 1882." I feel the remaining, barely there impression of the pen under my fingertips and hold my breath.
I like old books in particular, I collect them actually. I have books ranging from the 1940's all the way back to a Hanns Christan Anderson from 1879. And buying them is almost like a sickness to me. My chest actually aches at the sight of shelves lined with cracking and faded spines in a second hand shop. My knees feel slightly weak upon spotting a table at an antique market, it's foldable metal legs groaning under the gold mine of yellowing pages and fraying hardback covers.
When I find one I especially like- "oh god, a Lewis Caroll collection from 1932!"- I pick it up with a careful reverence that would suggest it were made of glass. Then, I flip it open slowly, one hand supporting the spine like one supports the head of an infant. I find the date and mutter under my breath, eyes wide and gleaming. Then, I flip through some of the pages, running my fingers delicately over the type, feeling the residue of old paper cling to my skin.
Books are beautiful. I have one, a collection of poems, where each page was individually put in, and each illustration was done on rice paper and glued onto the pages. But most importantly, when I feel the weight of a book in my hands,old or new, I feel like I'm holding knowledge, artwork woven in words, or even someone's history and memories. That same book I mentioned above came with a hand written not on the inside cover. "To Ada, from Papa-Christmas, 1882." I feel the remaining, barely there impression of the pen under my fingertips and hold my breath.
