The overwhelming majority of the books I read are new. Many are freshly published clothbound or paperback books with new book smell. Most are fewer than five years old. But older books still warm my heart. I love the look and feel and character of tomes older than me.
I recently looked up something in the books pictured here. It’s a 1907 four-volume history that I’ve owned for about 15 years. I haven’t used them much. It’s nice just knowing they’re there. But when I called upon them this month, I couldn’t help given them a thorough fondling. They weren’t masterpieces of publishing, to be sure. The binding is flaking apart and paper dust floats in the air with nearly every page turn. That didn’t ruin the moment, though. Just lightly handling the rough-cut pages was enjoyable.
I’ll be reading a 2008 book again tonight, but old books still have a magical pull on me.
