She likes to buy books the old school way.
She lives for the smell of them.
She holds them gently and each time she turns a page, she listens closely for that familiar, sandpaper-like snap as the dry, uncoated paper moves swiftly from one side to the other. The tips of her fingers silently cherish these moments too, for the feeling of turning a page is as fulfilling to her as a glass of cold lemonade on a hot summer day.
She loves to read with a pen nearby.
All her books contain handwritten notes along the borders.
She feels as though each book is not completely hers until it contains both the printer’s ink and her own. Perhaps this is because she considers reading to be a sort of uninterrupted conversation with the author. That is, until she interrupts with her own ink.
Second-hand book stores are her weakness. She could spend hours, days, weeks, inside–wandering through shelf after shelf, volume after volume in awe of the glorious conversations awaiting.
Today she took a chance and decided to have a gander online.
Then she remembered a store her friend once recommended and off to it she went. Aha! Oh dear Book Depository, how have we not become acquaintances until now? she thought to herself.
An hour and fifty dollars later, she was beaming. For soon there would be new topics to discuss, new questions to ask, and new conversations to spark. Brilliant, she said to herself.
And she logged offline in absolute delight.