Used Books

I went used book shopping today. Unlike new book shopping, you cannot have a shopping list when used book shop because you never know what will be on the shelves. It is an exploration, an encounter with chance, and a test of patience. Used book shopping is also not like old book shopping. Old book shopping is for collectors, a meeting of hubris and wealth. Used books are not collectables, not historically significant, and not expansive. It is an encounter, or, rather, a hope to encounter. You walk through shelves and shelves of yellowed, crumbling and rotting pages to find the one that is in good condition, well bound, clean and interesting. You reach for on, pull it from its spine, and there it is, in your hands. It may not feel right; it may be disappointing; it maybe damaged. But then, there is the one that feels right, exactly the one you did not know you are looking for. As you flip through the pages, the book is soft and warm. It is made so by its previous owner, by its past. It has a story, a mystery. Someone once bought it, gave it to a love one, perhaps, read it, likely, care for it for year, surely, and then, for whatever reason, sold it. You do not know the who, the when, the how, and the why, but it is there, you can feel it in your hands. You fall in love with it, bring it home and put it next to other books on your own shelves. You look at the shelves and can tell where and when you bought each book, how you have care for them and bring them with you wherever you moved, and you recall every time you open each page. And putting this ‘new’ one you just picked up into the rank of your other books is like inserting a mysterious narrative into your own story with the hope of opening yours up more, enriching it, transforming it.