Reality... bites...
I have a bit of a thing for books. Old books are always nice to have around. New books are fine, too. But if I'm getting a new book, it better be brand new--I don't like used new books at all.
But old books... I like my old books old and well used. I like them written in. I like them with little things tucked in the margins or between pages. Book plates, signatures, doodles--anything that speaks of the person or people who held it 50, 80, 110 years before me.
I just like to be able to see and feel the history--the progression--of that book.
A few years ago, I went on a bit of a buying spree on eBay. I have one shelf of my book case more or less dedicated to that spree. Every book is about 50 years old or older. My personal favorites go back about 100 years. Some are beautifully illustrated and bound. Others are more plain. They've all held up well over the years.
Which is something I don't expect most of my new books to ever do. Most of my new book are paperback (because they're cheaper and easier to deal with). Some of them already have pages coming loose and discoloration. It's not like I abuse my books (except for the copy of The Complete Guide to the Tarot, by Eden Gray, that I keep in my backpack at all time--that one needs to be replaced, again, soon), but most modern paperbacks aren't really built to last.
In a way, I find that kind of sad.
I also realize that I don't write in my books. Ever. It's just not something I do. In fact, it hurts to even think about doing that.
And yet, it's those marks--that little bit of "defacement"--that I love so much about my old books.
Almost all of my old books have an occult theme to them. I've got a two volume Encyclopedia of Freemasonry from the 1920s, complete with all the original paperwork from the first owner. A few books about spirits, death and one about The Vampire in Europe (which I still haven't dug into). All but one of them are non-fiction. That non-fiction one is heavily occult themed (from what I can tell--again, I haven't read it yet).
I look at that shelf and I see an old world that I think I would have fit very well in.
Then I think, "But there are still lots of people like that around--and most of them just annoy me when I meet them."
So I'm left sitting here, surrounded by books old and new, realizing I have yet to make a mark that will be found 100 years from now.
And then I stare at the blank or half-finished pages of a dozen manuscripts and think: "I have no one to blame for that but myself."
Time to stop thinking... and get writing.
But old books... I like my old books old and well used. I like them written in. I like them with little things tucked in the margins or between pages. Book plates, signatures, doodles--anything that speaks of the person or people who held it 50, 80, 110 years before me.
I just like to be able to see and feel the history--the progression--of that book.
A few years ago, I went on a bit of a buying spree on eBay. I have one shelf of my book case more or less dedicated to that spree. Every book is about 50 years old or older. My personal favorites go back about 100 years. Some are beautifully illustrated and bound. Others are more plain. They've all held up well over the years.
Which is something I don't expect most of my new books to ever do. Most of my new book are paperback (because they're cheaper and easier to deal with). Some of them already have pages coming loose and discoloration. It's not like I abuse my books (except for the copy of The Complete Guide to the Tarot, by Eden Gray, that I keep in my backpack at all time--that one needs to be replaced, again, soon), but most modern paperbacks aren't really built to last.
In a way, I find that kind of sad.
I also realize that I don't write in my books. Ever. It's just not something I do. In fact, it hurts to even think about doing that.
And yet, it's those marks--that little bit of "defacement"--that I love so much about my old books.
Almost all of my old books have an occult theme to them. I've got a two volume Encyclopedia of Freemasonry from the 1920s, complete with all the original paperwork from the first owner. A few books about spirits, death and one about The Vampire in Europe (which I still haven't dug into). All but one of them are non-fiction. That non-fiction one is heavily occult themed (from what I can tell--again, I haven't read it yet).
I look at that shelf and I see an old world that I think I would have fit very well in.
Then I think, "But there are still lots of people like that around--and most of them just annoy me when I meet them."
So I'm left sitting here, surrounded by books old and new, realizing I have yet to make a mark that will be found 100 years from now.
And then I stare at the blank or half-finished pages of a dozen manuscripts and think: "I have no one to blame for that but myself."
Time to stop thinking... and get writing.