I stand in front of the almost-alphabetized shelf, hands on hips, awaiting the signal. When it’s time to read it again, I’ll know.
Sometimes months, even years, go by. But suddenly, the undeniable urge is there. I pick up the book, the scent of its browning pages sinking into the flesh of my hands once again. As I blow off the dust and pull open the cover, I am home.
Our friends at the Daily Post asked
Tell us about a book you can read again and again without getting bored — what is it that speaks to you?
Obviously, these people have never looked at my bookshelf. Almost all of the books are there because they speak to me. Now there are some that were gifted to us or were the take-away from some workshop or another. Others are reference books, which still speak for different reasons. But the various authors in various sections all sing their unique melodies. I spend an inordinate amount of time with “The Mouse & His Child, which I have mentioned hereabouts before. I also go through the Ray Bradbury section most regularly. Philip K. Dick gets quite a few visits, as do Zora Neale Hurston and Roger Zelazny to name a few. I could go on, but the bookshelf is calling me.