I love the act of digging through an old bookstore, or antique mall, or garage sale for books the older the better. The books themselves have a story to tell and I am prone to wonder and imagine too much of my day in their stories. I’m fairly certain that I’ve had this affliction for quite some time. My family would argue that I have many afflictions this being the most definitive of all. I contend that it is one of the many layers of a storyteller of which I received a double helping of the outrageous.
But old books among other things remind me of something from my youth that is just beyond my touch. The nearly undescriptive scent that tickles a faint memory. The something that links the “who we are” to the “who we were” to the “who they were.” So nothing breaks my heart anymore than when someone brings in moldy, musty, still damp books. Honestly, who owned these? Swamp Thing?