What an astonishing thing a book is.
It’s a flat object, made from a tree with flexible parts, on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles.
But one glance at it and you’re inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years
Across the millenia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you.
Writing is perhaps the greatest of all human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs, books break the shackles of time.
A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.
I don’t remember the last time I’ve committed to reading an actual book. I’ve got a lot of e-books that I read from time to time, but it definitely has a different feel than actually holding a book in my hands. There’s something alluring and somewhat magical to it. The smell of paper, the slight rustling of the pages being turned, and the knowledge and adventures stored within it seemingly adds to the weight of the book itself.
I’ve always wanted to work at a library, for a quiet and introverted person such as myself, it sounds really nice. Surrounded by thousands of books neatly stored on shelves, and a quiet atmosphere to enjoy them. But I guess I should work on finishing the books that are already on my list before adding more to it. Onto the next one!