Today, I was reading the book "Farenheit 451", written by Ray Bradbury for my American Literature class. I was sitting in a little room in the back of the library, meant for privacy while you read or work. Once I finished my reading, I packed up my things and exited the room. I glanced at the shelves of the library, which I try not to do because I already have a stack of book sitting at home, worlds awaiting my arrival. When I took my glance, a certain spine of a certain book caught my eye. It looked, for lack of a better word, old. Like an antique. Navy blue with gold accents, I went to it. For some reason, I was pulled to the book, sort of like a magnet. That happens sometimes; I'm not entirely sure why.
The title of the book, "East of Eden", by John Steinbeck. If you haven't heard of this book, maybe you're familiar with "Grapes of Wrath". He is a wonderful writer, so I hear. I've never read any of his stories. I opened up to one of the first pages, a beautiful acknowledgment. I wish I had written down the words, because they were beautiful. Once I check out the book for myself, I will post them.
I love old books. I get it from my father. I can remember on the vacations we went on when I was little, we always picked a day to visit all the antique stores. He searched for books. He bought them, he read them, and he re-reads them. I love that about him. He re-reads books. The shelves in his living room extend against an entire wall, and they touch the ceiling. They are full of his beautiful antique books, along with other things from the past. An old hourglass, different bullets that were used in World War II, pictures of my French relatives that are long gone now. Pictures and pictures and pictures. I love my father, and I wish I saw more of him than I do.
I hope that you all are having a lovely Wednesday.