(no subject)
There is something special about looking at another person’s books. It’s the first thing I notice about a person’s living room or study, and I can never resist poking about. Sometimes its just a few sad rows of books, neatly lined up and nearly pristine, barely touched at all. Sometimes there are a great many books, all bought with the earnest conviction that they ought to be read. And then there’s the home of a bookworm, with the books stacked sideways and two deep on the shelf which is bending dangerously under the accumulated weight.
Of course, the kind of person who has bookshelves like that won’t actually buy more shelves - instead they’ll take the money and go hunt down the series that their friend’s acquaintance’s sister in law said were quite readable and they’ll buy all five books because while the series might not be their cup of tea there’s certain to be a friend borrowing them at some point and then it wouldn’t do to only have part of the series and… and the paperbacks on the shelves are all yellowed and patched with little whitish-yellow creases up the spine where the book was held one-handed as the reader stood in line waiting and just had to read a few more paragraphs and of course the book was right there in the outside pocket where it was easy to get at but also got all marked up by the pens that were also easy to get at but could never keep their caps on.
There’s a certain magic to digging around in someone else’s bookshelves and finding an old battered copy of a book you love and spending the next hour and a quarter talking about it, even referencing passages because you’ve both read the book at least a dozen times and have it quite memorized but will nevertheless read it a few more before the copy falls apart entirely. And then, when one of you realizes they absolutely must go, you exchange phone numbers or email addresses or promise to meet for lunch, because there is a book or two or ten that the other absolutely must read, and you hurry on your way, a bit happier because you dug through the bookshelves.
Of course, the kind of person who has bookshelves like that won’t actually buy more shelves - instead they’ll take the money and go hunt down the series that their friend’s acquaintance’s sister in law said were quite readable and they’ll buy all five books because while the series might not be their cup of tea there’s certain to be a friend borrowing them at some point and then it wouldn’t do to only have part of the series and… and the paperbacks on the shelves are all yellowed and patched with little whitish-yellow creases up the spine where the book was held one-handed as the reader stood in line waiting and just had to read a few more paragraphs and of course the book was right there in the outside pocket where it was easy to get at but also got all marked up by the pens that were also easy to get at but could never keep their caps on.
There’s a certain magic to digging around in someone else’s bookshelves and finding an old battered copy of a book you love and spending the next hour and a quarter talking about it, even referencing passages because you’ve both read the book at least a dozen times and have it quite memorized but will nevertheless read it a few more before the copy falls apart entirely. And then, when one of you realizes they absolutely must go, you exchange phone numbers or email addresses or promise to meet for lunch, because there is a book or two or ten that the other absolutely must read, and you hurry on your way, a bit happier because you dug through the bookshelves.