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    Lily@Melbourne, Australia


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I love my books, and I know I’m not Robinson Crusoe there.
There’s an episode of Seinfeld in which Jerry muses about why people keep books after they’ve already read them.
George desperately wants to get back some books he lent to a former girlfriend.
But it’s not always about the reading or re-reading. Sometimes it’s about the keeping.
Books are fetish objects, the look of them, the feel of them, the smell of them.

Particularly old, old books. Leather-bound books with gold-embossed sipines and mottled end-papers.
The yellowing, dog-eared pages, the stain where someone spilled their tea in the last century, the dust and must passed down through the decades. The old ideas they contain, the out-of-date phrases and syntax and rhythms no one uses any more.
Sometimes, there’s an inscription inside the cover if the book was a gift. Usually in elegant, sweeping copperplate in blue-blanck ink.
I never cease to wonder at the lovely handwriting people had in those days.
It’s things like this that make a book more than just something to read. It’s a treasure, a sacred object, a totem. It’s a little portal into another world.



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