The quietness was pleasantly overwhelming. Not a sound echoed through my tired ears. Yet for all the words in this place, you would think it would be deafening.
Imagine if you crammed enough people into a secondhand bookstore that each book had a person to read it aloud. With a megaphone you might instruct everyone to start in a whisper, and then have the voices gradually grow louder and louder until each person was shouting their story. What a commotion that would be! A glorious pandemonium of all literature being taken seriously.
But no, today it was as quiet as could be. The air was not stifled, as it is in the public library- the air conditioning made it perfect on a warm summer's day. After a hectic week with people galore, my introverted self breathed a sigh of relief. It was quiet. Wondrously quiet. I could hear myself read. I live in an apartment building, and even though it is peaceful compared to my old neighborhood, there's still constant noises. A car driving by, a door slamming, vacuum whirring, voices murmuring... and if we're lucky, birds chirruping.
So for the small space of time, I escaped... into a second-hand bookstore, a world of words and of imagination. New books have never fascinated me... it's the pages with stories of their own, the browned pages, holding secrets of many fingers, that catch my eye. I savor brushing over the textures and frayed edges, feeling connected to past generations and realizing I do have a place in this world. They are little rectangular time-machines that forsake all technological wiring which consumes the present.
Treasures of the adventure?
A 1931 hardcover edition of Don Quixote, and the knowledge of the old-books-shelf behind the counter.
All in all, delightful.
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