I noticed your unmistakable spine from ten steps away. It was maybe a little yellowed, with those characteristic rounded rectangles of color at the top and bottom that I have always coveted. Your title was clear, the type perfect. What is it, may I ask? Times? Somehow, it seems so fresh to me today.
At first I think I must be rescuing you when I take you from your neighbors, The Book of Virtues and something by Jude Deveraux, but then I am suddenly unsure and embarrassed. Could it be you like it where you are? How forward of me to snatch you from the shelf, to turn away from the room and flip through your pages, to check the authors of your criticism for names I recognize. Perhaps you, sweet erudite volume, are not so taken by me as I am by you.
Still, I notice that your binding is crisp; your pages are bright. You have never been given a chance to divulge your secrets, have you? No one has delighted in the shadows of your footnotes; in the nonsense chatter and blinding light of your criticism section. You have never really been enjoyed, have you? I am so sorry, you deserve so much more. You are a book of high breeding, but you are not garish — no gilded edges for you, no whisper thin pages, no silk ribbons. You are like gabardine; you are like cotton. You were made for just one thing and that thing has been denied you.
I know you have heard promises before, so I won’t insult you with them now. You won’t really believe my intent until I carry it out; until I take you to the register (your price is an insult to both of us) and buy you and take you home to begin devouring you page by page. I will begin at the beginning and follow each citation. I will read all of your appendices. I won’t rush; I’ll take my time. When I am finished, all of you will be part of me, and you will know what it was you were printed for. So just wait, I ask, just wait, and I’ll make these years spent on dusty bookshelves seem like a half-remembered dream. Just wait and you will see.
Jane is so lucky to have you.