I like the cool, dry feel of pages underneath my fingers.
They remind me of something real, solid, static – meaningful in its unchanging state. So much of our world is like television: noisy, constantly moving, ever a bombardment of sounds and images flickering and flashing. It’s dynamic, I suppose, but the sort of dynamism that tires instead of energizes. The type of dynamism that seems almost explosive in it’s drive to overwhelm all of your senses until you’re numbed and senseless.
Books don’t do that; they don’t numb you. They do the exact opposite: you are sensitized somewhere deep inside and they can open up your pores as they fire and ignite neurons and nerves. They remind you of things gone by and make you think on things to come (on the next page or in the next life). They require your imagination to work, overtime even, and require that you go deep, dive deeper, reach into that yawning place that can only be filled with hope, with faith, love, passion, desire, need, so much need, real need, with life.
Books bring you back to life.
The first step is always the first page; the turn, the rasp, the slight indentation of ink on cotton. It’s a promise – it feels like a promise that I know will be kept.