I’m surrounded by books. I’m intoxicated by their sweet and damp smell. I’m fired up.
As soon as I cross the threshold of that place, I feel like home. I’m beset by books: Charles, Williams, Mea Allan, Edvard Radzinsky, John Connell. I walk idly to my favorite place. The books are welcoming me. I touch them slowly, like I'm caressing the face of a lover.
I stop at one particular book. It has my sign on it.
When I open the book, I feel the strong scent of an old book. The fragrance is intoxicating me. I feel like an insect that is going to be swallowed by the sweet redolence of a carnivorous plant. The book is eating my soul.
I touch the book. The covers are so old. The cover is made from a thick material, with tiny protuberances. I love the color. It’s a pale green with beautiful gold threads, just like a river crossing a forgotten forest.
I look for my chair, next to a window. I can hear the noise for outside. People shouting, laughing, children crying for some sweets, cars driving slowly on a busy road.
I go back to my book and start to read passage after passage. Gently, the noise of the human daily life is dwindling. I can’t hear anything except for my mind reading with greed. I’m in another world. I feel like my spirit is lifting to another dimension, where is so warm and cozy. Strangely, it reminds me of my grandmother’s home filled with the sweet smell of warm wine and cinnamon.
I’m tasting the wonderful world of books, just like Eve tasting the forbidden apple of knowledge.
