I like the way they smell.
I love the tiny bits of mundane, everyday history they hold.
For all the knowledge internet dose and will contain, in my mind, it cannot replace the feel of holding in my hands an old, smelly, crumbling book that was printed years before I was born.
It was carried and cared for by humans, kept safe, scribbled in, moved across the country by foot, horse, train or wagon or lost in some attic long after the owner forgot it was there.
The best are the ones passed down through time from our grand parents and great grand parents.
Here are few pages from two of them.
The first is my Grandmother’s on my Father’s side, Pearl.
September 19th, 1941 There was a lot going on in the world that year.
That's my Grandmother's handwriting. One day, I'll make that and taste what she tasted.
I feel alone in this love of old books.
No one I know cares for them and wants to preserve these snippets of history.




