“There is no mistaking a real book when one meets it. It is like falling in love, and like that colossal adventure it is an experience of great social import. Even as the tranced swain, the booklover yearns to tell others of his bliss. He writes letters about it, adds it to the postscript of all manner of communications, intrudes it into telephone messages, and insists on his friends writing down the title of the find. Like the simple-hearted betrothed, once certain of his conquest, “I want you to love her, too!” It is a jealous passion also. He feels a little indignant if he finds that any one else has discovered the book, too.” ~Christopher Morley
American writer Christopher Morley (1890-1957) really nails it when he talks about our love affair with books and literature.
Reading is much like falling in love. It’s such a personal thing which books and authors we fall in love with, but when we fall — we fall hard.
That brings me to the much-dreaded (by many) Valentine’s Day. Here’s a helpful hit to my husband and anyone married to a bibliophile: I don’t want chocolates. I don’t want a card. I want to spend time in my favourite second-hand bookstore with the man (and child) I love, and hot coffee in hand. A blissful escape from this eternal winter. (And if you’re new to my blog, here’s why I love old books so much — I blame it on my dad!)
And, something that made me smile, this week’s window display at a lovely Ottawa paper shop: