Pardon my French.

But this book, this fucking book. It’s beautiful. Just one word. Beauty.

The writing wove itself around me, bringing back memories of childhood spent in the stacks of my old library, of an old bookstore run by an older woman who genuinely cared about what people were reading and the impression it left behind.

I remember the way a mom and pop bookstore smelt, long gone from the area I currently live in and the one I lived in for 26 years, up until a few months ago. This book brought back memories of the heavy scent of paper, of dust, and the feeling of pages under my fingertips, even as I enjoyed the ebook I wished for a physical copy.

It was gorgeously written, and a tribute to readers, as well as writers and the emotions evoke within us. This book reminds me of time spent with friends, talking over books, gushing over what we were reading.

Those moments have come few and far between but I’m thinking maybe, next week, I might go to my local book club.

After all, some of the best ways to get to know people involve books, don’t they?