shelves of books - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
And just beyond the heavy, mahogany doors stood 'them'. Thousands upon thousands stacked in neat rows, all orderly arranged and alined back-to-back where their insides could not be judged by their covers. Each set in groups surrounded on five sides with wood as deep and dark as blood and each one a mantra of the previous. Their titles all curled and looped in one direction and turned to the side so that one had to tilt their head in order to read them, Each book held it's own world of wonders and answers to short and lifelong questions about humanity that had lasted for hundreds of years before the small library had even been assembled.
When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I scanned the room as fast as I could, trying to take it all in. We were in an old library, with stacks of books towering towards the tall ceiling, and even more covering every inch of the shabby, old shelves. By the looks of it, they’d all been sitting there for quite a while, more and more thrown haphazardly on top of each other like a game of Jenga.
I ran my fingers of the spine of each book. I had just finished unpacking them all from my move, and they smelled the same way I remembered, old and dry and real. They were physical, even if the stories inside of them weren't true.
When my eyes adjusted to the dark, musty room, I was surprised at what I did see. Like I expected, I saw huge stacks of books, leaning against shelves stretching even higher towards the ceiling. The leather spines lined up perfectly, a whole room filled with valuable first editions. However, I hadn't expected all the dust. It looked like the whole library hadn't been touched for a decade, maybe more.
Standing against the wall and running to the end of the room, a hardwood multi shelved unit displayed the complete leather-bound 1987 edition of The New Encyclopaedia Britannica. She'd not seen them before, and never realised how many volumes there were in one edition. She gave her husband a sly nudge and whispered in his ear,“Col, take a gander at all those books; that's how they used to find their info back in the dark ages. How would you fancy having to wade through that lot?”
The library shelves are tall and close together, forming mazes that used to be my childhood playground. Now they are my escape. Walking between them is like coming home, I've memorized their scent: dust and wisdom, paper and creativity, ink and emotion.
For a moment, I just stare at the shelves and shelves of books before me. From far away, the shelves are a collage of stories, each story taking the physical form of a book with it's own unique size and color. The shelves are quilts of writing, they are stages of an art unique from any other. As an avid reader, I can appreciate that, I can love that.