"When you give someone a book you're giving them the most imaginative of gifts, because you're taking a personal interest in what interests them." - W.H. Smith ad in Observer
The Writers' League of Texas posted the above quote on their Facebook page this morning, and I couldn't think of a better quote with which to begin today's post.
My mom recently gave me a copy of Lit by Mary Carr to read. Each minute dares me to put it down but I can't. I read a few sentences as I chew my morning cereal, sneak in a page when my boss isn't looking, try to read a chapter before I go to sleep. This book won't let me go. There is so much within this book that calls to me.
"What hurts so bad about youth isn't the actual butt whippings the world delivers. It's the stupid hopes playacting like certainties."
"He never gave up on me, I only stopped being matriculated."
"Your heart knows what your head don't. Or won't." (The heart as a metaphor discussion reappears...)
"It was dawning on me how uphill a poet's path was, and I confessed to her that if I had to be the choice between being happy or being a poet, I'd choose to be happy."
When was the last time you received a book as a gift? What significance did it bring to your life?
Books you've never written can hold your secrets. Years ago I gave up writing, yet, here I am with fingers poised upon a keyboard.