Sunday

A book of no little curiosity

What a curiosity is this?


A book. Found, we might fancy, in an old junk box, or buried at the back of a dimly-lit shop, rising gently from the settled dust of years.

Covered by a deep brown leather, reused, perhaps more than once, now scratched and cut; it is wrinkled, uneven, maybe bears the memory of a wound. Fragile, yet tough, it has a soft, gentle feel. The catching of the stitches ribs the fingers like a gentle scar.

On the cover, three objects. What purpose brings them here? Tell them together, see them apart; they bring to mind a story, a place where you can begin, or end.


But here's an oddity. The cover has a strange way of inviting your fingers to explore; as if something - a lost object - has been inserted inside, once for safe keeping, but now removed, or fallen. What would you keep in here? Perhaps secured by a pin?

Open this curious book.


Feel and hear: the papers rustle, shifting one against another. Wax rubs against felt, against net, against tissue. Soon, some of these papers will crinkle, change under the exposure of light, and age under your touch.

A curiosity. A book that is stitched to change over time, as do you, and all we live with.

Peer inside. Here is a strange book. Filled with private places, hidden folds, and discreet tucks.

What an odd idea then, that comes into a book owner's head! As if a calling spirit of a bird passed by, and folded a wing to keep safe inside, a secret.

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