After making plans and then cancelling them, I suddenly decided to return to KC for my 20th high school reunion. I spent a lot of money on the ticket, so I attempted to compensate by taking the subway to JFK airport. It didn’t take nearly as long as I expected. On the tram during the final leg of the journey, I found myself surrounded by a group of licentious individuals. Notice the girl getting high off a chemical in her scarf (clever way to get it through airport security). And the guy in the white shirt is clearly in the middle of a sophisticated dance move.
Book lover. Bookworm. Book store. Book reading. Book festival.
The weight of soon-to-be-read books in a bag. The smell of freshly-printed books. The little kick of someone seeing a book under your arm, and, with genuine curiosity, asking “What are you reading?” It’s a book. You are book people. That’s how it works.
As a kid, I always had a book with me, reading first thing upon waking and at night, in bed, until I couldn’t keep my eyes open, under the desk in a boring class, riding on buses and in cars, holding a book in front of me while I walked to school, struggling to find a way to read a book while I rode a bicycle.
When someone exclaims, as book people often do, that they simply love books, that they are a reader, that what they really want to do is go somewhere cozy and just read and read and read, I want to hug that person and say, Read the rest of this entry »
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