The
musty smell of used books wafts toward my nose as my eyes scan the clearance
shelves. I am content in this store, amid
such a motley array of books. I feel
like a treasure hunter seeking for works of lasting value. As my eyes peruse the shelved volumes, my
mind filters them: title, author, plot. However,
the thought foremost in my mind remains, Is this book worthwhile?
On
the first bookcase, I spy a pastel paperback by Shannon Hale, whom I like. Her Newberry award-winning book intrigues me
with its story of unlikely princesses. Atop that shelf sits an old brown hymnal, its
yellowing pages and aging smell preluding the beautiful old hymns inside – a
definite keep. Shakespeare’s thick, cream Othello (always classic) on the next
shelf plops into my waiting basket.
Passing
over the dark grain of the smooth wooden shelves, my hand encounters a double
treasure. A petite book, about as tall
as my hand and barely over one hundred pages, proudly proclaims the name Antoine
de Saint Exupéry in simple blue font along the spine. His masterpiece, The Little Prince, is illustrated and narrated simply, yet the
story is profound. It leans against a
shiny paperback collection of short stories by George MacDonald. In rich red, black, and gold, the cover
portrays a solemn woman wrapped in a windblown cloak striding down a flight of
stairs. I am enchanted enough to choose
it as well.
Popular
fiction is ignored. The books’ dramatic
covers and flimsy plots are too transient.
Hidden in their midst, however, Melville’s Moby-Dick reclines, dignified and unassuming with its navy spine
and plain cover. My eyes brighten as I
snatch it from the shelf. I have read it
before and was hoping to add it to my collection.
As
I plop this heavy tome into the red shopping basket, my arm begin to ache. The overflowing pile of books tells me that
my shopping is done for the day. Making
my way to the cash register, I smile, eager to read my new treasures.
