Oh, books.
Sometimes their power begins before the cover is even cracked. I picked one up today that I’ll be reading soon. I held it in my hands and felt myself tingling with the thought of opening it, tantalized at the idea of what new people, and nations, and histories were lying between its pages, a whole universe bound inside a bundle of paper and ink. I was torn between wanting to read it, and not feeling ready to start it quite yet, but I wanted a little taste. I opened the first pages, ran my eyes over the map that covers them, then moved onto the first chapter, and scanned a few teasing lines to get a glimpse of the style, the sound, the names, the cadences. Sometimes I can just slip into a book without hesitation, without ceremony. But this one is a different animal. It needs more, I can’t just casually settle into it, much as I’m tempted to. It will need to be coaxed, I think, romanced, made to divulge itself only after the lights are low, and the room quiet, and all other thoughts have been set aside, when I can give myself to it without the shadow of other things and other stories to distract me.