Books - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The books wait to speak their words, their ink on papery leaves that will always stay even though centuries may pass. They invite a conversation with the thoughts, one unspoken and kind - for one can always walk away from a book if one chooses, and return when ready. In a way, they are the legacy their author's thoughts, preserving ideas that would otherwise be as fleeting as the song of a bird.
Bound in red leather, cracked and dry with age, the thin volume smells faintly of pipe tobacco and dust. The pages within are brittle and what remains of the book’s original stitching is barely holding it together.
A faint scrawl on the inside of the cover declares that the journal once belonged to Jonah Rimer; likely one of the doctor’s ancestors. The first page begins in the middle of a sentence, suggesting that either there are pages missing or that there was another volume before this one; unfortunately, the journal’s poor condition makes it impossible to tell which.
Books lie dog-eared on the couch in a ram-shackle order. Tina scoffed, so like Hank to organize by sedimentation. She walked closer to read the covers of various fonts only to find the language wasn't English.
The book was old and heavy, the leather felt soft and delicate as he ran his fingers over the faded blue bindings. He fingered the gold lettering carefully before he opened the cover, paper rustled as he thumbed through the book to find what he was looking for. Words appeared and disappeared as his eyes flitted across the pages, quickly picking out anything of importance from the jumble of sentences that littered the world he had become immersed in.
The new paper smell of the book was strangely at odds with it's old fashioned and battered leather cover, the gilded lettering faded and tatty. It fell open with an avalanche of pages, their snowy whiteness bespeckled with a flurry of black ink in poetic lines tumbling down the page.
He lets the book fall closed. It makes an exhausted sound, like a padded door shutting, by itself, at a distance: a puff of air. The sound suggests the softness of the thin oniony pages, how they would feel under the fingers. Soft and dry, like papier poudre, pink and powdery from the time before, you'd get it in booklets for taking the shine off your nose, in those stores that sold candles and soap in the shapes of things: seashells, mushrooms. Like cigarette paper. Like petals.
She opened the aged book. It smelled warm and dusty, like the inside of an attic. The fragile old pages almost became delicate snowflakes with the touch of her hand. Most people would have left this book without as much as a backwards glance, but she was enthralled. She appreciated the beauty of an old book.
Secondhand book stall, tatty paperbacks with curled up corners, hardbacks with their once glossy dust jackets missing, a leather bound volume with peeling gold lettering, romance novels by the tonne, crime novels, science fiction, assorted travel books, biographies, phrase books for various languages, large encyclopedias with their bindings cracked.
Gilded cover, book felt tarnished, colour faded from the back of the book, blue letters faded, page edges browned, pages damp and spotted.
The decrepit book was paved in darkened leather back, there was no telling how old it could be - maybe fifty, maybe two hundred. It was withered in its old age and tea stains ran down its pages like a silky black dress. Someone in the distant past had ripped out pages and left a jagged edged page. It held the past... and would hold the future.