I bought two antique books yesterday. One is from 1866 and the other from 1870. I collect antique books but I only have fifteen so far. Most of them are from the 19th century and a few from the early 20th.
I love old books. I love the broken old leather and the yellow pages. I love to read the signatures on the first pages, printed down by the people who owned them a long time ago. I love the small newspaper notices I sometimes find between the pages. I love the smell of the dusty attics and old boxes they’ve been kept in before they found their ways to the acutions and thrift stores where I found them.
It’s amazing to think about how different the world was 150 years ago. The world has changed so much and everyone who lived back then are dead now. But their books are still here, in my book shelf. A piece of that time is kept. The same book I hold in my hands were held by someone else 150 years ago. Perhaps it was read on board of a steam engine train by someone dressed in a long flowing victorian dress. Or by a farmer in a cottage in the woods, in the light of a kerosine lamp. That time is long gone but the books remains. For me it’s just the most amazing feeling. To own such a piece of history.