MitgliedSPerkins

I grew up surrounded by shelves of books, boxes of books, piles of books, bags of books, lockers full of books, books under the bed, on the table, on the counter. History books, cookbooks, novels, poetry, classics, plays, philosophies, biographies… you name it, dad had a book on it.

Now I have my own library, which was the equal of my fathers in scope and breadth. And with my father's passing this past Christmas his books have come to mingle with mine. One big family, legacy of a man's love for literature as it is reflected in his son.

I love the frustrated thrum of pages as they reach the apex of their arc and fall upon the page before it, staccato reminders that these ideas are contained but not tamed; they constantly seek to escape. The faded glory of spent gilding, hidden deep in the heat-stamped recesses of aged leather. The scent that wafts past my nose as the pages of an old cookbook flee my thumb, faded memories of a thousand thousand dinners (many of them obviously unsuccessful). Old typefaces laid long ago with handset lead type, tarnished gilt edges and worn marbled endpages... I could go on, but the single thing I love most about books must certainly be: the hunt.

I am a writer, amateur bookbinder, artist & an unabashed bibliophile. I imagine I'm among friends here.