There is nothing like reading an old book, it’s pages yellowed with age. Spine cracked from hours of pages perused. Don’t get me wrong I love the feel of a pristine book all shiny and new and full of promise. But there is something about old books that makes my soul happy.
Wandering the disorganised rows of piled up books, formerly loved in second hand bookshops is an exciting prospect. Never knowing what you will turn up. Obscure books, old editions, hundreds of titles you have never seen before. It’s a magical place akin to setting foot in Narnia.
Buying an old book from a second hand bookstore begs many questions. How old is this book? (I know, you can open the cover to solve this mystery) Where has it been? One owner? Many? How many times have these pages been read? Did those doing the reading it love it? Or dislike it, hence, why it is here? Are there inscriptions inside the book? Little scraps of paper used as bookmarks?
Each book is a mystery, with a secret story to tell. One that will remain untold, only allowing for you to imagine. Imagine the history of this book and all the places it has been. Each time I read a book that I picked up from a secondhand shop I am reminded of a quote. A quote from a favourite book of mine, The Shadow of The Wind. A quote I will leave you with.
Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grow and strengthens. – Carlos Ruiz Zafon