I love personal inscriptions in books.
Today Hannah and I went to Russel Books on Fort Street. Aisles of books climbing the walls, stretching out toward the street. Books once held in the hands of someone else. I searched for a deal on some Maya Angelou or Leonard Cohen. I bought a couple of books of poems, but not by either poet.
The most intriguing part of the experience was reading the personal inscriptions just inside the book covers–comminuqué among comrades, letters from lovers.
“The best gift in life is a good friend, Tim.”
“I do love you… me.”
I wondered at the meaning behind their gift, where life has taken them since, and how the recipient decided to be finished with a souvenir of their relationships.
I find myself wanting to read the poetry of these characters instead.