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Every now and then I will open a couple of my  books and see my underlinings from years before, or a note in my father’s hand, or in the hand of some anonymous reader before me. And I understand that civilization is passed on through this alchemy of words on a page.

Books have a smell.

Like when you step into a hospital and get that hospital smell, when I stepped into the bookshop, you breath in that perfume of paper and magic that strangely no one had ever thought of bottling.

Cicero pointed out: A room without books is like a body without a soul.

Books have soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it.

Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.

Some books should come with warning signs in big red letters on the front cover: WARNING: THIS BOOK MAY CHANGE YOUR LIFE.

I believe books have souls.

I believe I must have books everywhere, in my car, in my bag, in my room, house, office, everywhere.

Books are the souls of the room, they reveal the taste, the interests, and the secrets of whoever lives there.

Some people spend their days with their heads buried in screens, and others with their heads buried in books. I prefer the latter.

Screens have their uses, but they carry no memories.

A book is a companion, a recollection, a renewable source of associations and wisdom.

2 thoughts on “Soul: in books

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