confession of a bibliophile
in a letter to marks & co. 84 charing cross road in london, helene hanff writes, "gentlemen, the books arrived safely. one is so fine that is embarrasses my orange-crate bookshelves. i'm almost afraid to handle such soft vellum and heavy cream-colored pages. being used to the dead-white paper and stiff cardboardy covers of american books, i never knew a book could be such a joy to the touch."
i, like helene, have a shelf for every kind of book. and, i must say, i love touching them as much as her missive describes.
on a recent trip to powell's with a friend, we swapped authors and browsed at leisure. just as i was telling her about a particular book, we happened to see it on the shelf. now, i own this one, but i've never read it. mainly because the author was in my writer's group several years ago and we were all a bit envious of her success. after all, we drank the same coffee and sat in the same chairs and she has gone on to greatness while we continue to drink the same coffee, edit and rewrite ad nauseum.
when i got home, i took it off the shelf. what a great time of year to give up pettiness and be happy for her; for all the work that she poured into this, for how much of herself, her time and her family she gave up to birth these stories. what a solitary and arduous profession is writing!
and you know what? i love her book. it reads like poppies blooming; makes you pay attention but without the slightest hint of narcissism. i simply celebrate her a little more with each page turn. i guess the best writings can't really be collected as much as they can be shared. books are still a joy to touch but more importantly, something to allow ourselves to be touched by.
i, like helene, have a shelf for every kind of book. and, i must say, i love touching them as much as her missive describes.
on a recent trip to powell's with a friend, we swapped authors and browsed at leisure. just as i was telling her about a particular book, we happened to see it on the shelf. now, i own this one, but i've never read it. mainly because the author was in my writer's group several years ago and we were all a bit envious of her success. after all, we drank the same coffee and sat in the same chairs and she has gone on to greatness while we continue to drink the same coffee, edit and rewrite ad nauseum.
when i got home, i took it off the shelf. what a great time of year to give up pettiness and be happy for her; for all the work that she poured into this, for how much of herself, her time and her family she gave up to birth these stories. what a solitary and arduous profession is writing!
and you know what? i love her book. it reads like poppies blooming; makes you pay attention but without the slightest hint of narcissism. i simply celebrate her a little more with each page turn. i guess the best writings can't really be collected as much as they can be shared. books are still a joy to touch but more importantly, something to allow ourselves to be touched by.
Do I see a future as a book critic for you. . . . ? :)
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