Here’s the thing about me: I love books.
And also, I love people.
I guess that’s why I love used books so much.
I love books that are worn by many fingers; paper creased and rainspotted and written on. Feathers and leaves tucked between pages. Startlingly personal inscriptions, penned into the flyleaf in watery lavender ink.
And few things provide a more intimate glimpse into the mind of a reader than page after page of their thoughts and emotions scribbled into the margins: a breadcrumb trail left by the psyche, as revealing sometimes as a dream.
Turns out I’m married to a guy who loves used books, too, and together we’ve filled the house with them.
And so it shouldn’t surprise you to know that one of the highlights of our week in Florida was a visit to a special used bookstore.
While I was there, I decided to take some photographs. I thought of all the little surfaces that make up a space like this, where someone can feel comfortable sitting down on the floor in the middle of an aisle, her long hair brushing the pages of some tome some other girl has read before. I wanted to take photos of the textures of the space — photos that felt personal and intimate in the same way that a book feels personal an intimate when it’s full of marginalia.
I’m not sure I entirely succeeded, but I like the results.
Book lovers, enjoy: