Ex Libris

I learned to read very young. It was my mother who refused to read comics to us, and my overwhelming desire for cartoons apparently drove me to achieve literacy well before the expected time. After that, I was insatiable. I devoured books. We would go to the library and leave with our bags full. The summers were one long line of stories. As I grew older, I discovered the deliciousness of staying up, staying still, staying isolated for entire nights to finish a book that was simply impossible to let go of. The calming smell of bookstores where time disappeared.

I loved books.

They were my escape from a confusing reality. They painted the world in colors and curlicues that made sense to me. My brain was bursting with crooked imagination; in my fantasy, the world was a magic place, of unending possibility and madness, and books seemed to speak that same language. I don't know when that started to fade. I don't think adults lose their ability to imagine; I think we just don't let ourselves play like we used to.

We spent the train ride home discussing books in general, and favorite books in particular. And it occurred to me how much I love them, how every book is an undiscovered treasure, waiting to be explored, and how every book spins my inside and never leaves me the same person I was before. Our favorite stories reveal more than we may realize to others. How much I might learn by reading yours.

Eat the cookie. Find the key. Open the door, and the magic is there.