I have always, and will continue to, have an addictive relationship with books as far as I can remember. I love books! They represent so much more to me - another dimension, another world, a chance to reinvent myself and take the role of the main protagonist and go somewhere for the duration of the page count. It's a chance to live, learn and travel to new places, even if it's only in your mind.
In all my time of discovery, I have introduced myself to thousands of books and they have either become my new best friend or they've been piffed on the hard rubbish of my life.
I try to make friends with every book I open - each book has an unique personality, much like a fingerprint and I try not to pass judgement by purely looking at it's cover and creating my own perception of what it really is about on the inside - a bit like people, really. Sometimes I'm really good and my book surprises me, pleasantly and then I pat myself on the back for having the depth of perception to choose it, not for what it looked like but for what it was, inside - oh, clever little me...
Other times, I justify the 'bad pick' because (wait for it) it was a wolf in sheep's clothing - it certainly wasn't ME choosing it purely on the basis that it said "erotic"....or...."sexual tension" on the back cover, certainly I wouldn't be as superficial as that. It certainly wasn't the Rubinesque Renaissance beauty on the cover, draped in burgundy and gold with voluptuous thighs and pert breasts.....would I choose a book purely because of the promise of romance and deviance? I think not.
Which is why I choose biographies, for the most part. What type of biographies? Oh, the ones about people's lives - duh.
Today, Grant took me to lunch at the top end of Bourke Street, where there sits an old bookshop with the most delectable and inviting titles in the window. The Hill of Content has a history in Melbourne that I have only just discovered (today, in fact) and in keeping with it's quaint title, has a certain 'olde worlde' charm once you step over it's threshhold. It has an ambience of antique paper and pipe smoking, an immediate relaxed and peaceful feeling overcomes you once you trail the shelves for titles not always found in your Borders, Angus and Robertson, Collins-type bookstore. Ironically, the Hill of Content was bought by Angus & Robertson in 1951, after the owner no longer wished to run it because his son died.
As you quietly ascend the crimson-lined albeit worn out carpet and the dark carved timber stairs with it's Victorian-style balustrading to the first floor, a sense of anticipation creeps in - you just don't know what's waiting for you upstairs and......with a sense of relief, it doesn't disappoint. Bound copies of the classics, one-off editions of artists catalogues, beautifully bound classic literature for the discerning reader.....my heart stepped up a notch, pounding. It was like finding the most precious treasure, right here, in my own backyard.
Eyes devour titles delicately stacked sideways - the nose takes in the beautiful, comforting smell of "oldness" - like being at Grandma's house after she's baked a home-made apple pie and the heart takes flight. For here, in this little bookshop, which has it's own history, there are new friends - yet to be made. New acquaintances to get to know and new souls to take back home with you, knowing that this new friendship .......is a keeper.
I have found a peaceful oasis where I know I will revisit and visit again. This place has beckoned for weeks and months and today I gave in and was rewarded handsomely.
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