Stacked in the far corner—dusty,
musty and ignored—an
entire world awaits at only fifty cents each.
Leave me while I
over brittle, yellowed pages filled with
fanciful words, forgotten fonts.
languish, longing to be rediscovered beneath
bound by history. Yes, I’m
obsessed. Whose fingers touched these pages? I inhale the
odor of linseed and ink and paper and coffee. A
keyhole to yesterday. The
smell of time.
Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.
“It is a good rule after reading a new book, never to allow yourself another new one till you have read an old one in between.”
― C.S. Lewis
This post was written especially for Write Tribe prompt: smell of old books…