Old and dusty but everlasting
There's just something about old novels. The way they are bound in cloth or leather makes it comfortable to hold. The way they make your nose itch once you hold them because you've swept the lazy dust enveloping the book with your fingertips makes it special. And when you look into the pages, you see that the papers are discolored, with random ocher splotches. Pages, almost ready to leap out of the book and float like autumn leaves ever longing to influence the floor calls you deep into their spell. How you have to be extra gentle to them makes them feel precious. Also, the black uneven words, printed with care are playful yet soothing to the eyes. I love old books.
People took so much time and precious care to beautify what they love. Why? because they loved what they do, and did what they love. They believed in what they do and think. They wanted to adorn the world with what they thought would make it better, and with what good knowledge they had. They had intention.
These books are not merely dead pages, but works of art, once of great meaning to ordinary people who became great because of how much this meant to them. And that's what I, we, should aspire to be. =)
