Breathing Books

For about a year, I've been neglecting my beloved books. A sacred hobby, reading somehow (and quite tragically) fell to the wayside during a busy year when it undoubtedly would have done my soul well. I usually read 20+ books a year. This year I've read six. Pitiful...

I've recently noticed how much I miss my books and have been reading a lot more. I'm reading four books right now, and all of them are non-fiction; both of these facts are very strange for me.

Tonight I've been reading in Thoreau's Walden. It's my dad's old copy, published in 1960. You can imagine how great its pages smell. I nearly cracked the binding clean in half when I opened it. It has sentences underlined in red pen and little notes in some of the margins. It's an amazing copy. Here's a bit that I underlined:

A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips;--not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself.

Wow. Reading is the greatest.

Now, back to my books...