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Borrowed Post On Finding Things in Books

Readers,

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.

Cheers!

Thomas Hardy Describes My Morning

Readers,

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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