I didn’t mean for it to be, but this is apparently book week. As in, my post from Wednesday was about books. This post is about books. Sunday’s post will (assuming I don’t pull it) be about books. I suppose reading has been the theme of the summer, so below is a caption from Instagram a few weeks ago regarding children’s books.
The used bookstores of Lexington are lovely. Lately I’ve been scouring them for old copies of books I know and love… the sporadic Hemingway here, a little Fitzgerald there, and of course the occasional Virginia Woolf or Betty Smith.
But today, on this day, I was in admiration of how simply fantastic children’s literature can be. I must have spent have an hour digging through old favorites and musty memories of someone else’s nostalgia. And my own too. But there is something magical about a used children’s book. How many afternoon rainstorms were spent poring over the pages? How many sandwich crumbs fell onto the soft parchment? Most importantly, how much homework was avoided by the imagination churning away at these soft literary lapels?
I will never know. And that is the beauty of it.
Also, this picture just for fun, because the mere title gave me and my husband the giggles in the aisles of Barnes & Noble. Admit it, this is funny.