after that story frm mark twain, i am now reading one of jane austen’s classics.
i found my old book ruined (because of my sister), the book that i haven’t even read yet.
so i ranted at her to fix it.
and this morning i woke up to find the book nicely wrapped, albeit a bit wrinkly.
but i have this knawing suspicion that it wasn’t her who fixed it
(i think it was my mum).
i love my books, especially the old ones.
the ones with pages that are yellowing in colour, and the edges thick and furry with age.
sometimes when i don’t have the time, i buy them first and keep them in a safe place before i find the time to start reading them bit by bit.
i think sometimes i buy books more than i buy a new shirt or a new bag.
because i don’t usually plan on buying them, but when i go somewhere and find the right one i figured that i have to buy it then and there because i don’t know if i could ever find the exact same copy at the next time or the next place.
which of course means that i don’t like most of the usual ones that are always in stores.
it’s a different feeling.
so of course when i found my old paperback book that i thought was safely kept was suddenly in a wrinkled up condition with dried traces of water on them, i went ballistic.
because every single one of those are valuable to me.
she probably just thinks i’m being difficult.
probably she doesn’t even understand my anger.
no one does.
does she even understand how much effort goes into the completion of one book?
it has never been merely “just a book” to me.