The high-ceilinged room smelled of morning and coffee and cigarettes; over and through all seeped the musty reek of old paper. Old men planted by philosophy. Housewives sighing by fiction. Students rifling through pockets for extra coins. Smiling volunteers in maroon aprons everywhere and nowhere, directing traffic, organizing, answering questions. And the books.
The books were piled in corners and under tables, arranged in rows. Wobbly signs rose above the crowds, directing seekers to treasure. Shiny paperbacks rubbed shoulders with leather-bound volumes, gilded lettering glowing and beckoning. Faded titles all but illegible. Slim treatises in an oft-rearranged heap, eager aficionados ever fingering the crunchy pages.
Centuries of accumulated wit and wisdom and lore, priced at a quarter. Stories of dead men and women, unknown, untold, here brought to life: sold for seventy five cents. The knowledge of great men written out, expensive at three dollars.
They lie still, sending alluring promises of quenched curiosity and sated desire. Poetic phrases mingle with intellectual declamation to form mesmerizing narcotic smog. Part with worthless metal to possess them. Take them home; inhale fragrance. Drink deeply.
3 comments:
This makes me salivate. I'm not kidding. You shouldn't tantalize me like that. I could go mad.
Why are your rubbing this in my face?!!!
That really takes me back. Good memories. Love the smell.
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