There is no frigate like a book

A week or so ago, I found myself with time on my hands, so I browsed the stacks at the library for a not-so-tattered copy of Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own. When looking through a copy at a bookstore, I had thought of my mother and her room at the back of our house where she often writes her poetry. She always closes the door, against disruption, against distraction, and against cats. Whenever I venture in for paper, or her laptop, it feels as if I've entered another place, another world: one of her creation. The entire right-hand wall as you enter is lined with books, a few trinkets balanced between. One shelf pays homage to the Day of the Dead, with little skeletons lying about, painted and papery. Several real skulls perch around the room as well. More books and manuscripts and boxes of music are stacked around the floor, sometimes leaving only a narrow path, or maybe a few far-apart foot holes, to her two desks.
Now, maybe I shouldn't be giving away this description of the poet's den. After all, it is so secret that even most of her closest friends have never seen it. Our dear, late friend Mardi mused once that there must have been beautiful hanging gardens thriving in her study to rival those in Babylon. But the most wonderful thing about that room, for me, is the light and the smell. The scent of old books mingles with the cane she carves to make her reeds, and that aroma will only ever exist pocketed away in my home. And the light. In morning and early afternoon, the light fades through the window, and seems to waft through the air like dust, never settling, never staying. I hope I can find a room of my own one day, a room like that, where all you need to do is allow inspiration to seep in while you inspect the skulls and brush your finger over the moss garden and gaze at the painted skeletons with bright flowers adorning their heads, and maybe even pose the Mozart action figure.
Without books, though, the room would seem empty.  I have inherited my mother's love of books, and it prods me into almost every bookshop I pass, where I will undoubtedly want to add to my small, but growing, collection. All additions, when well thought out, are rewarding. Today I opened my collection of Tennyson to rediscover a few browned flower petals pressed between the pages. I smiled, thinking of the last owner who must have left them there, and stroked the browning pages curling at the edges. Unfortunately, at university most of my reading tends to be attached to my courses, which do usually supply good articles and books, but I want to be able to read whatever strikes my fancy. So today, I have decided to take a leaf from a friend's book: she makes reading schedules! I haven't added dates to mine yet, but hopefully it will encourage me to read, so I may tick off the chapters and sections as I've read them.
Just today I acquired a new textual treasure, but it's something I don't need to finish or schedule. On my way back from my first lecture, I (not so subconsciously) took a route past my favorite bookshop, hoping it would be open. As the green shopfront peeked out from behind a corner, I saw the outer door had been pushed back to reveal an 'open' sign hanging inside the glass door.
For the past week or so I had been looking around for Emily Dickinson poetry collections, and when I asked the sweet, bespectacled man crouched behind the counter, he quickly led me to a book he had received only yesterday. He always knows whether he has something or not; each book leaves a lasting impression. I immediately bought it (only £3!) and told him of my search. He then responded, "Well, now you know where to come first next time!" I certainly do. I couldn't wait to read and flipped through the poems while walking back, occasionally glancing up just in time to avoid collision, and I stumbled upon this:

               There is no frigate like a book

                   To take us lands away,

               Nor any coursers like a page

                   Of prancing poetry.

               This traverse may the poorest take

                   Without oppress of toll;

               How frugal is the chariot

                   That bears a human soul!

One day, when I'm retired from whatever I settle on doing, I'd like to open up a used bookshop, let the aroma of ink and paper lure book-lovers of all ages in, and I would know every spine sitting on a shelf. Well, I'd like to think so. I would sit and ponder, patient, and wait for wanderers to open the word-packed treasures, soaking up the stories that poured out.