Friday, November 25, 2011

confessions of a book fetishist

Dreamed last night of roaming packs of cats dressed in costumes, including a two headed one. They kept turning into children and trying to get into the house. Also that I was living in a hotel downtown and kept falling asleep on public transporation and forgetting who I was. Today, there are turkey sandwiches and leftover pie, not to mention round 2 of Thanksgiving with my Dad's side tomorrow. I am not venturing far today, since Black Friday and the crazy consumerism freaks me out a little. I did browse around online for gift ideas for the passle of little ones, and think I may keep it simple and just buy books for all of them. (they range in age between 2 and 10, so I should be able to find something appropriate even for the non-readers).

When I was 7 or 8, my mom (or Santa) bought me a boxed set of illustrated classics, filled with things like Swiss Family Robinson, A Tale of Two Cities, A Journey to the Center of the Earth. (they looked like these, but mine were paperback) I read them all, but my favorite was War of the Worlds, which I must have read a hundred times (and the single book it looks like this set is missing). I also liked to take them out of the boxes and fondle the smooth, glossy paper covers, their little thick square shape, muse over the cover art. I was almost as enamored of them as I was the Peter Rabbit books from the school library. I distinctly remember devouring most of them during Christmas break, sprawled across the bunk beds I shared with my sister. I think the only thing I hated was Huck Finn , which I never really warmed to even after a couple readings in college for my courses. In the next couple of years I would abandon the classics in favor or trashy horror novels passed down from my aunt and assorted library finds. Somehow, I seem to have lost them all admist the chaos of moving, but I still remember exactly what they looked like, felt like, even smelled like.

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