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Borrowed Post On Finding Things in Books


I came across this post about entitled Things I Find in Books, Part 1.  Give it a read.  Like the author, I also tend to buy used books – in fact I can’t bring myself to buy a full priced book anymore thanks to Half Priced Books being so near.

I’ve never found money in a book but I have been lucky enough to find a few random things in the well-worn pages of a few garage sale treasures, not including the faded brown boogers or questionable slightly curled hairs (I’m saying they’re arm hairs – that’s how I sleep at night).

To me, the best items I’ve found have been a couple of personal letters from the 50’s and 60’s that were hidden within the pages of a couple of Goodwill bought paperbacks.  There’s just something so intriguing about them.  In a way, they’re quick snippets of that era’s reality T.V.  Neither of them say anything monumental, but they both convey a level of courtesy, warmth, and love that is missing in most of the rhetoric.  Plus the penmanship of both, while the two are completely different, speaks to a time where style and readability were equally important.

Looks like I’ll be stopping by Goodwill tomorrow to browse the selection.


Thomas Hardy Describes My Morning


It seems as though everyone I know has been sick recently and I woke up a little under the weather myself.  Sinus headaches are the worst, especially when you wake up with one.  Here’s a poem from Thomas Hardy dedicated to all those who have struggled with something similar.

A Wasted Illness

Through vaults of pain,
Enribbed and wrought with groins of ghastliness,
I passed, and garish spectres moved my brain
To dire distress.

And hammerings,
And quakes, and shoots, and stifling hotness, blent
With webby waxing things and waning things
As on I went.

“Where lies the end
To this foul way?” I asked with weakening breath.
Thereon ahead I saw a door extend –
The door to death.

It loomed more clear:
“At last!” I cried. “The all-delivering door!”
And then, I knew not how, it grew less near
Than theretofore.

And back slid I
Along the galleries by which I came,
And tediously the day returned, and sky,
And life–the same.

And all was well:
Old circumstance resumed its former show,
And on my head the dews of comfort fell
As ere my woe.

I roam anew,
Scarce conscious of my late distress … And yet
Those backward steps through pain I cannot view
Without regret.

For that dire train
Of waxing shapes and waning, passed before,
And those grim aisles, must be traversed again
To reach that door.

The Rabbit Hole

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