I love old books. There is something about the golden yellow turning into spotted brown that entices. I love the smell of it, the feel of it.. and if it has some random notes tucked within, it fires my imagination like nothing else.
I love reading the same book again and again. Its like journeying through something familiar and yet there are hidden surprises- few turn of phrases you missed, a new thought to twaddle on, a new perspective. And when someone has scribbled notes about it, I get a chance to have an imaginary conversation about the characters. Some times, its a personal note and I get to feel the pleasure of a voyeur. Of knowing an intimate piece about a stranger that I have never met and never will. I dont exactly know what that is so satisfying. Like holding a secret and never betraying it. Then reading a book becomes more intimate.
I love old books more , because, every one of those have a story . The story of how I acquired them. They hold memories of old dingy places strewn with newspaper and assortments of discarded stuff and me, sitting there with abandon, sifting through unwanted, unknown books to find one that catches my fancy and my budget. Yes, this is how I could afford to buy books long before I started earning. Somehow, those books with curled endings and much threaded, partially crumbling binds are more dear to me, more intimate than the sparkling new ones that smell of the printing press. They dont have a story. May be they do, but they dont entice me. Not like the mystery of spotted brown ones.
Or may be I just too prejudiced!