A Human Toad

It’s much less what I’m reading, than the simple fact that I am reading, that I find remarkable. More than remarkable: holding a book in my hands, turning the pages, and making sense of what’s printed on those pages, is a miracle. How the books I read find their way to me, and come to a temporarily safe harbor within these walls, is a mystery. Though it appears that I’m the one who collects them, and who has chosen the volumes presently in my care, I have little confidence that such is really the case. I’m far more of the feeling that the books choose me, that they wait for me wherever they are, knowing that when the time is right I will appear and bring them to a place where they’re appreciated and have the best chance of survival. And it isn’t just me: among my friends and acquaintances are readers and collectors who feel as I do, and are caught up in the wonder of it all. Of course this all speaks to an even larger miracle — that of being here, now, in human form. Somewhere along the way, I may be a book, if I haven’t been one already. Or a toad — which, some might argue, I am now, little knowing the compliment they’re giving me.

[ 2050 ]