Loving Books

I’ve been a little homesick lately, with the reality of living away from home for a full month finally hitting me. In times of sadness, when I’m away from family and long-time friends, I turn to the only thing around that feels comfortable…my favourite books. 

As much as I love buying new books, there’s something so special about re-opening an old favourite that bears the marks of love and time. I’m someone who eats while reading, so some of my favourites have food smudges in corners, and also have creases where I have sat them down in a bad position for what I intend to be a moment, but always turns into a long time. 

I’m not someone who believes books are holy objects. They’re not there to sit on a shelf and be admired. They’re to be read, to be loved. I don’t care if your book is signed, or is a super special edition, the author didn’t spend hundreds of hours writing it for the spine to be looked at. It was created so you could enjoy it to the absolute fullest capacity. 

I am a chronic book highlighter, and when I pick up an old favourite, there’s nothing I love more than being able to see the evidence of my past readings. To see what I enjoyed, what I thought clever, what I thought important at a previous point in time. I also love adding to the highlights, marking new thoughts and favourite passages, so that future me has more to reflect on. 

I love my books to the point of breaking. I love them so hard, I want them to end up battered, and coloured, and maybe a little bit dirty. I want to be able to give my copy of Looking For Alaska or the Perks of Being a Wallflower to my kids one day, and say “this was my favourite book when I was a teenager. Love it like I have”. My books get carried in bags, and dropped from beds when I fall asleep reading them. I dog-ear pages when I can’t find book marks, and  I accidentally tear pages in my haste to keep reading. My books are not in pristine condition, and that’s why they hold such a special place in my heart. My books are comfortable. They share my history. They contain my feelings, my tear stains, my past experiences. They’re a little dirty, and snobbier readers would say I don’t take care of them, but they’re so totally mine that I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

frangipani princess xoxo

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