Sometimes you love doing something. Really, really love. For me it’s books and reading and being in bookstores and buying books and collecting books. It’s not just something I like, it’s something I’m passionate about. When I feel down, I wander into a library, a bookstore or perch myself down in front of my bookcase and after a while, life is manageable again. Books are good for my soul.
Even though I’m passionate about books (heck, I have 1.5 degree in book history), I sometimes forget. For a long time sometimes. Life takes over, screams out at me to take care of other stuff and I do. And then I forget about the consolation of being around books and the thrill of reading them. It becomes buried under day to day life. Then, all of a sudden, and usually what feels like a coincidence, I stumble upon my first love again. I walk into a bookstore, get transported back into the safe haven books offer and become entranced all over again. I browse, see new books and familiar ones (am I the only one that judges a bookshop by a small number of books, if they have those, they’re a good bookshop, if they don’t, they’re not very good?) and breathe paper and ink.
This happened to me this past Sunday. We wandered into the Holland Park branch of Daunt and as if by magic I rediscovered my passion for books. Strangely enough, that makes the rest of life more interesting and alive and Technicolor too. The passion transcends into other areas of my life. I’m not quite sure why this surprised me, since this has happened many times before. And it doesn’t really matter that it did surprise me. What matters is that it worked. There’s a little extra magic in my life. And another book (you didn’t honestly believe I could walk into Daunt and leave without a book, did you?).
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