I would gasp in delight if I were taken home and placed in a prominent location. Yes, over there. Right on top of that stack of books by the bed. I'll be waiting in anticipation to be read.
If I were a book, I wouldn't want to be too heavy. I'd like to be lightweight. I'd be like one of those books the reader can't put down and continues reading while walking from bedroom to kitchen in the morning. I'd get to smell coffee while being propped up against the toaster with a sunbeam enhancing my font.
When the very last page is read and my cover is closed once and for all, I know the excitement of my life will be finished. I suspect I will end up on the third shelf on the right side, next to "The Life of Cleopatra". She might snub her nose at me. But, on the other side "The Zen of Nothingness" might be interesting if I can find the Roshi. I think, without an engaged reader, I would simply fall asleep from boredom, collect dust, perhaps go into a trance never to awaken, and pass into the beyond where all good books go.
I'd like to believe that books reincarnate. When I'm asleep on the shelf never to be touched again, I'd like to imagine I've been published and entered a book store once again, all shiny, with another great title, enticing cover, and pages inviting an eager reader to pick me up and take me home. Perhaps this time around I'll a fascinating historical novel.
Your story reminds me of a James Whitcomb Riley poem:
ReplyDelete"The Little Old Poem That Nobody Reads"
The little old poem that nobody reads
Blooms in crowded space,
Like a ground-vine so low in the weeds
That nobody sees its face--
Unless, perchance, the reader's eye
Stares through a yawn, and hurries by,
For no one wants, or loves, or heeds
The little old poem that reads.
The little old poem that nobody reads
Was written --where?--and when?
Maybe a hand of goodly deeds
Thrilled as it held the pen:
Maybe the fountain whwnce it came
Was a heartbrimmed o'r with tears of shame,
And maybe its creed is the worst of creeds--
The little old poem that nobody reads.
But, little old poem that nobody reads
Holding you here above
The wound of a heart that warmly bleeds
For all that not knows love--
I well believe if the old World knew
As dear a friend as I find in you,
That friend would tell it that all it needs
Is the little old poem that nobody reads.
Who's that scary guy with your son?
ReplyDeletexoxo
Stacey
This makes me think of the many books that haunt all those bookstore shelves shouting, "read me!," to passers by. And yet there are only a few of those many pages that really are worth the read.
ReplyDeleteCiss, like the idea that books could "haunt". You have given me an something to work with. Maybe this book character could have fun with it. Thanks!
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