I ended up in a used bookstore on Saturday, as much by chance as on purpose.
I don’t need any books right now (not really); I’ve got a few too many on the go and a stack waiting patiently on the night table. That, of course, doesn’t mean that I’m not open to a new read; like if a friend’s suggestion captures my gaze, or if a classic that needs another look just happens to be sitting there and calling out to me.
Lately, I haven’t been reading as much as I should (or as much as I’d like), but I received a letter on Friday from a faraway friend who tells me he is reading more than he may ever have.
He’s been feeling poorly over the past while (I’ve noticed this from previous letters), and coupled with his isolation during this whole pandemic lockdown, and disruptive sleep patterns, he has more time on his hands than ever.
So he has been reading, and reading a lot.
In his letter, which I intend on replying to today, he mentioned rereading books by his favourite author and I could not help but think of one of mine.
I also thought how he might enjoy a certain book that is totally Canadian, and was one of the books that got me reading voraciously back in junior high school. I’ve actually reread this particular book a couple of times and decided I would set out to find it on Saturday.
And I did (along with a few others I couldn’t live without).
Now, it’s a rather old paperback, but is the perfect size for mailing overseas (which I intend to do today). I hope, or I’m pretty sure, my friend he will enjoy it as much as I have.
I’m hoping the novel will lift his spirits. Books, like friendship, can do that.
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