special someone. a book

'was there anything as real as words?' - oscar wilde, the portrait of dorian gray


there's a book. a mark twain book, from 1917, 450something pages, a connecticut yankee in king arthur's court. there's quite a bit of connecticut yankee in the story, not so much of king arthur.
it's a jewell. it's old, it's the perfect size. not one of those that require extra pair of hands as a support system or a magnifying glass so you can read the words. i guess some forget that books are supposed to be read. it's a hard cover, blue (faded, nothing too fancy), with antique-looking papers (probably because they are close to being antique) with red edges. even the very smell of the book promises a world far away, full of enchantments. forget morgan le fay and merlin. within books everything is magic.

this particular book i can't take home with me. i can borrow it from the library but it is not allowed to leave the library. when you think about it, that is not such a bad idea. i might love that book more than anybody and that is exactly the reason why it should stay where it is. chances are i'd never bring it back.

normally, it should take me about three days to finish. instead of cuddling with the book, i need to chase the moments to get myself to the library, run to the top floor, politely smile at the librarian (either one of the two that sees me coming from afar gets the book ready before i come close), i whisper a 'hello' to the book, continue fast-paced walk towards the spot, sit down, sigh, open it and relax.

i make that last awhile. then it's time to say goodbye.


'some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some to be chewed and digested.' - francis bacon

instead of devouring the book, i made it a ritual.

reading to me is a form of breathing. this special book turned it into worship.