Yesterday I was talking with someone whose son is trying to write his college application essay. I say ‘trying’ because according to her it isn’t going so well yet. They’re brainstorming topic ideas right now, and she suggested an essay about how he loves used book stores. Apparently, he wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but she and I got to talking about the idea, which I thought was an interesting one, and then I got to thinking about what it is that I love about used book stores. And not only used bookstores - libraries, bookstores of all kinds. Really anywhere the books live.
There are so many things I love about these places and the books they hold. All that information, all those stories just waiting to be discovered. It’s like a treasure hunt. I walk through the shelves, looking at all the books, and never know what I’ll discover next. A new book by a favorite author? A new author altogether? A book I’ve been looking for for a long time? So exciting. I remember my mom laughing at me (affectionately of course) once when I found a book I’d been looking for and was practically jumping up and down in an aisle in Barnes & Noble I was so excited. I think I was twelve or so. Of course, my mom and I have also been known to rush directly to a book in a bookstore on release day, joking later that we probably pushed people out of the way in our singleminded quest to grab the book. Big readers, both of us.
And that isn’t even mentioning the books themselves. The smell of them, the feel of them in your hands. I’ve gotten addicted to my Kindle and the ability to carry a thousand books around in my purse instead of one paperback, but it will never replace paper books for me because of that visceral feeling of holding a book in my hands. (Definitely going to have to keep both)
I have a lot of books of my own that live on their bookcases in various rooms in my home, and sometimes I just like to go look at them, to scan the shelves, not only to decide what to read (or reread), but to revisit favorite stories or memories that attach themselves to the books. Which ones I read to get me through bad times or that I read during a particularly memorable time in my life. Which one was the first I read in a particular genre or was a particularly beloved childhood book. Even something like which one I read on the plane when I went to Greece four years ago (Just Like Heaven by Julia Quinn, if you’re wondering). There is something strangely satisfying about just sitting and looking at the books.
They, the stories they contain, comfort me, sweep me away to other worlds and lives, bring me happiness, and so many other things. I’m always happy where the books are. What about you?
There are so many things I love about these places and the books they hold. All that information, all those stories just waiting to be discovered. It’s like a treasure hunt. I walk through the shelves, looking at all the books, and never know what I’ll discover next. A new book by a favorite author? A new author altogether? A book I’ve been looking for for a long time? So exciting. I remember my mom laughing at me (affectionately of course) once when I found a book I’d been looking for and was practically jumping up and down in an aisle in Barnes & Noble I was so excited. I think I was twelve or so. Of course, my mom and I have also been known to rush directly to a book in a bookstore on release day, joking later that we probably pushed people out of the way in our singleminded quest to grab the book. Big readers, both of us.
And that isn’t even mentioning the books themselves. The smell of them, the feel of them in your hands. I’ve gotten addicted to my Kindle and the ability to carry a thousand books around in my purse instead of one paperback, but it will never replace paper books for me because of that visceral feeling of holding a book in my hands. (Definitely going to have to keep both)
I have a lot of books of my own that live on their bookcases in various rooms in my home, and sometimes I just like to go look at them, to scan the shelves, not only to decide what to read (or reread), but to revisit favorite stories or memories that attach themselves to the books. Which ones I read to get me through bad times or that I read during a particularly memorable time in my life. Which one was the first I read in a particular genre or was a particularly beloved childhood book. Even something like which one I read on the plane when I went to Greece four years ago (Just Like Heaven by Julia Quinn, if you’re wondering). There is something strangely satisfying about just sitting and looking at the books.
They, the stories they contain, comfort me, sweep me away to other worlds and lives, bring me happiness, and so many other things. I’m always happy where the books are. What about you?
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