I have been cleaning a shelf in our bedroom, it is really a deep windowsill that I filled with books, I am a little old fashioned when it comes to the printed page and I hoard books as I recall how expensive they were not so many years ago.
There is something wonderful about the feel of a book, the flick of the pages. All this is tied to my childhood, reading under the covers, one eye open trying to finish the chapter as I drifted off to sleep with my parents calling to me to make sure I was settling to sleep.
How I wonder now at book shops, every title you can imagine. The bookshop of my childhood was more like a library than a shop, it’s hallowed shelves treated with respect. Tiptoeing through the quiet of the richly decorated interior, the blood red carpet and old oak shelves laden with novels I could only dream of affording. Order a book! Displayed on the desk where money exchanged hands for these volumes of escapism a sign proudly claimed ‘order any book and it would be delivered to the shop for you to collect’.
The shops magic majesty of theatre and drama were too intoxicating a mix for any Bronty lover to resist. The shelves all crammed in an order any mere mortal could comprehend, no duidecimal system. Now book shops provide newspapers, CD’s, DVD’s and coffee shops all within vast out of town caverns.