The more that you read, the more things you will know.
The more that you learn, the more places you’ll go.
My book shelves overflow with people I admire. Not every author is a favorite, but all are meaningful in quirky ways, different as major and minor keys. Full of powerful elegant sentences, every book reminds me that writing is an act of invention. It puts me in a state of complete wonder.
These volumes are like lifelong friends – I know they’re there, even if I don’t check in with them on a regular basis. Call me crazy but some of them will never leave my shelves. Mostly the ones in tatters, dog-eared, held together with tape and tenderness. Simple. Humble. Nostalgic.
As my bookshelves expand, I feel like my brain expands too. I think it’s literary luck, the way books meet you where you are in life and help you get to where you’re going next.
When I was a kid, my mother used the library like day care. What a bargain ~ a meagre ten-cent bus ride to town and back on George’s Transit.
For as long as I wanted, I was free to wander the stacks and pick up anything that caught my eye. The library fed my endless appetite for the tomfoolery of crime fiction and scandalous behavior of grizzled hard-drinking detectives.
It was a world that existed outside of classes, catechism and choir practice. A world racier than the one I lived in. And I could be part of that.
I still use the library but I want and need my own books. To me, there’s nothing more beautiful than a wall of paper and ink.
What’s on your wall? What’s your tattered-and-taped favorite?
What fed your literary appetite as a kid?