There is such pleasure in books. It’s hard to know exactly what the pleasure is—is it the type face, the actual words, or even the smell of the book? Is it the fan of the pages? Is it in the knowledge that is deep inside?
I love books. I love all books. But I especially love books I don’t own!
I’ve had a love affair with books my whole life. From the 10¢ Harlequin romances of my youth to my theological tomes from Divinity school. I have had bookcases, and bookcases, and bookcases. And I’ve traveled with them, too, carrying them in boxes (bankers’ boxes are the best) from one home to the next and to the next and to the next.
Until now. I am now down to 8 or 9 boxes of books. And let me tell you, it is liberating to be free of all that weight. I culled my books before my last move, and donated more than I took with me. Now I can use them as a decorating option, rather than having to stuff them in layers on book shelves. Now they look neat. And now, each one is dear to me.
And I’m grateful for each one.