For the love of old books

Photo by Aliis Sinisalu on Unsplash

You walk into the second-hand store. Inside, there are microwaves, antique chairs, clothes, and stuffed toys galore—but your eyes are drawn to the back. To a bookshelf, dusty and neglected.

The books in its care are old. The covers fall apart, the pages are yellowing, and the words inside are no longer in common use. In many of them, a name, or even two, are carelessly scrawled in the front. A bookmark falls out when you flick through the pages of one, and you slide it back in. Carefully, always carefully.

The ink smells like wonder—a scent you breathe in and relish. Your fingers stroke the covers, caress them. Some people don't understand it, and some never will. But you know, you know beyond a doubt that every one of these books has a story, a story that is not written in their pages. A story you can only ever imagine.

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This is why I love old books.

I know some people might roll their eyes when they see me in a second-hand store or op-shop. I head straight for the books. My eyes are glued to the spines; I literally tilt my head to see the names better. I stroke the covers, feel their various materials under my fingertips. If one looks especially old or loved, I will open to the front page and look, either for the year of publication, or for handwriting on the inside. A name, or a date.

And then, when I find a book that stands out to me, and that I can afford, I take it home. I find a place for it on my bookshelf. I add it to my to-be-read list, and every time I touch it, I handle it with care.

I have stopped caring about what people might think. In fact, I pity anyone who doesn’t understand, for they may never appreciate the incredible feeling of holding a piece of history in your hands, and becoming a part of it.

If you haven't already guessed, I collect old books. Every single one of them has a story to tell.

I have one book that is, judging by the publication year, almost a hundred years old. Another that was a gift from a daughter to a mother for her birthday. Yet another that was used to teach shorthand at a school, with five different names in the front, two of them clearly sisters.

I love the stories typed up inside these books, too—but the stories they have lived make them more awe-inspiring, by far.

And every time I add a new book to my collection, I open to the front page. I balance a pen between my fingers. And I write my name, and the year.

One day, someone else may inherit these books. By then, the story will have grown. There will be another name, another date, another life, and then another person will—I hope—cherish it all as much as I have, and will continue to do.

Emily B.

P.S. Thank you for reading! Please comment and let me know what you think. Do you agree? What are your favourite old books?