I used to have a recurring dream that I was wandering through my house and came upon a door I’d never noticed before. Opening it, I found myself in a room crammed with a clutter of books. Hard covers and paperbacks were packed on shelves, piled in corners, and spilling from surfaces. Disorder was part of the charm. Bindings were worn. Many books had faded or tattered dust jackets. My dream self walked between the bookcases in quiet awe.
Now these dreamt-of riches can be mine on Kindle.
I read on the
Amazon website that for an affordable sum I can purchase a device that will have available to it over 1.8 million free, out-of copywright, pre-1923 books, which ought to be enough to keep me amused for any life expectancy I can imagine. Wow!
The secret room was my treasure hoard, my Aladdin’s cave. I sometimes dream in color but rarely with a sense of smell, so the dusty old-book aroma must have been added by my imagination as I cherished the vision in waking reverie.
Possibly the visual, tactile, and olfactory aspects of my trove of books are valued because they’re connected psychologically with the words of authors bringing me pleasure as they touched my mind. Some future reader may wax lyrical about a small device where electronic sentences appear on a screen.
Whatever the psychology, the dream is mine, and I’ve enhanced it with a comfortable chair and a good lamp.
In fantasy I place my hand on
The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Canon Doyle and carry it to the chair.
Without any flashy special effects the scene changes to the rooms of 221 B Baker Street where Holmes and Watson are examining a walking stick left behind by an unknown visitor.
Outside the windows is late 19
th Century London, and far away the wilds of
Dartmoor are haunted by a spectral hound.
This sort of magic happens all the time.
I’m now reading
Where the Truth Lies by Rupert Holmes. It’s not great literature, but is more entertaining than anything I’m likely to find on my 100+ channels of TV.
The volume is in good condition with a slick dust jacket, firm covers, smooth paper, and clear print, but it fades from my notice as it transports me to
New York,
Los Angeles, and
Miami of the 1960s.
I see the antiquated plumbing of a bathroom of the Plaza Hotel, the Monsanto “Adventures thru Inner Space” ride at Disneyland, and the sleazy cocktail lounge of a
Florida dog track.
The Kindle edition is $9.34, but I bought my copy for a dollar at the Plymouth Library book sale.
When I’ve finished the book, it will go into a box to be sold for a dollar at the Plymouth Antiquarian Society Fair.
The dream of the enchanted library is part of what makes me who I am. I may someday own a Kindle, but I cannot fall out of love with the real physical books that come and go in my life. To be without something to read would be a nightmare, but so far the old system works. I touch paper each time I turn a page.
