I’ve been a vociferous reader my entire life. To be honest, there’s a certain pleasure that one finds while immersed in the pages of a well-written tome; I don’t know if it’s the idea of engaging the imagination, or the fact (more often than not) that the world on the page can seem so much more inviting than the one in which we live.
When I was younger, I wanted to work at a bookstore; I got my chance a few years later. Interesting assortment of customers, to be honest. A former friend of mine wanted to own a bookstore; we lost touch so I don’t know if her dream ever became a reality. The same dream occurred to me, but nowadays, it seems like everyone is enthralled by digital gizmos and the like. When I go to a bookstore, a good percentage of the clientele is there for one thing only – coffee. Not me, though.
Personally, I need the feel and smell of a book. I need to turn pages and to jot down the occasional note. I need the weight of the book in my hands – and the knowledge that I haven’t tossed a couple of hundred dollars down the drain if I should drop or misplace it.
I don’t know why this occurred to me; I think it’s because so much of my life has been tied to books and part of that life is now slowly slipping away. There are so many – too many, to be blunt – things that are competing for my attention; it’s so hard to find time to read (or sew, but that’s a different complaint). Don’t get me wrong – I’m thankful for the life I have. I’m far more blessed than so many other people, and I do appreciate that fact. But the world contained inside of a book can be so much more exciting.
I’m trying to read LeCarre’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. I remember tiny bits of the BBC series, and I’ve yet to see the more recent movie. Love Guinness and Oldman, and I can’t wait to compare their interpretations of George Smiley.
But before I tackle either, I want to read the book.