The Beauty of Used Books

Growing up in a single-parent family, books were a rare luxury. Every three months or so my ma would take me and my siblings to a nearby used bookstore and each of us was allowed to buy two books for ourselves. Back then, those trips were so highly anticipated that I would spend the night before tossing around restlessly as if that could somehow urge the sun to rise faster. To my innocent mind, that old bookstore was a whimsical land with magic awaiting at every nook and cranny. There was just something deeply satisfying about going through shelves after shelves of dusty books until my nose became itchy and I couldn’t stop sneezing.

Although my current financial situation allows me to splurge on brand new books from time to time, I still cannot resist the quaint charms of a secondhand bookstore. And it is not just about the musky scent of old paper or the aesthetics of a battered book. It is the mystery, the unpredictability of what I might come across that makes used book stores so irresistible. There is no fancy banner, no flashy sign, no bestselling section to guide me through a used bookstore. What I can find depends almost solely on serendipity as my fingertips gently caress the battered spines. Over the years, many people asked me whether I minded the broken spines, dog eared pages, torn covers, and countless other deformities of a secondhand book. For me, I cherish those scars as a roadmap of sorts, one that reflects the reading experience of the previous owners. During my adolescence, I used to collect the random miscellaneous objects I found in those used books and keep them in an empty cookie tin. From bobby pins, electric bills, stickers, to notepads, I hold on to them with the dedication and diligence of a museum curator. Maybe, after all, this is my own museum, a panacea to all the strangers I have befriended through our mutual love for books.

A few months ago, I returned to my hometown for the summer and decided to visit that old bookstore my ma used to take me to. Although it has changed hands multiple times over the years, the store never appears to lose its lovely charms. The current owner is a warm middle-aged woman with a northern accent I find particularly endearing. I ended up wandering around the store for a good 2 hours and thumbing through what seemed like a thousand books. The store had a decent collection of classic and contemporary literature. After going through stacks and stacks of classics and children books, a hardcover version of The Call of The Wild caught my eyes. It was a beautiful leather-bound book with golden cursive letters on the cover. In short, it was just too beautiful to pass over. On the way home, I stopped by a cafe for a quick brunch. As I was leafing through the book, an envelope fell out. There was nothing inside it, but the scribble on the top left corner instantly captured my attention. The writing was barely eligible so it took me more than a minute to make out what it was: "Dearest mother, the light of my life." To say I was intrigued would be a blatant understatement. A million questions rushed through my jumbled brain. Why did this person leave this envelope in the book? Was this book supposed to be a gift? Why was there nothing inside the envelope? I opened the envelope several more times and looked inside as if I possessed the ability to lure the letter to appear. After a few unsuccessful attempts, I couldn’t help but feel disillusioned, like the previous owner of this book had failed me by not putting a letter inside this envelope, by giving me only a single piece of a puzzle. But this was not my life to make sense of, but rather someone else’s. I realized that this mere piece of paper in my hand was a testament to someone’s existence, a slice of their life. At that moment, I felt a sudden connection with this stranger whose face I didn’t even know. Who are you, the stranger with whom I share a book?