You know you’ve read a good book when you turn the last page and feel a little as if you have lost a friend.
~ Paul Sweeney
One of the earliest memories I can recall is reading a book. I don’t remember the book, but I remember watching my finger move letter by letter across the pages, feeling my lips move to form those letters into something my child’s brain could understand. I remember the act of “reading.”
My parents instilled that lifelong habit early. That’s me up there reading, most likely on a Saturday morning, since television came much further down the list of things to do than did books. My father, especially, loved to read, in part because he was a bachelor until he was 50, and reading occupied many hours in the evenings before he met my mother. Our house was filled with shelves and shelves of books, and many of my childhood friends treated our house like the local library. I was always happy to share my books. Even today, I lend books to friends who spy something on my shelves they want to read. When friends are sick, I load up a bag full of reading options along with a casserole or two to help speed their healing, or at least pass the time.
My husband can always tell when a book I’m reading is really good because he has to pull me out of its world and back into ours when he asks me a question. When we merged our libraries the first time, we were startled to discover we shared the love of one book so much that we had each kept our childhood copy all these years. What was it? The Reader’s Digest Treasury for Young Readers He had grown up just as much a bookworm as I had.
My husband and I chat occasionally about what we’d do if we ever won the lottery, as I’m sure many people do, especially when the winnings get as large as they did for last week. We started after we were first married planning what we’d do with our first million; now, fifteen years later, I think we’re up to how we’d spend our 17th or 18th million, if given the chance. In my vision, I’d have a room something like the library in Beauty and the Beastor the one in the painting The Bookworm (1850) by Carl Spitzweg.
But if I were going to fill such rooms, I’d need more books. I mean, really, I always *want* more books, but then I’d have the perfect excuse ~ there would always be shelves to fill!
In the meantime, though, I’d love to hear your suggestions. What are some of your favorite books?
[Note: This post is #2 of 26 of the April A-to-Z Challenge. Please see the button on the top right of the page for more information. Last year’s B post: Book of Her Heart.]