Engl 111X – LeFlore
28 Sept 2011
There are moments during the day when there is just too much noise. White noise hisses from the television in the corner. The high pitch buzz of rock music blares from earbuds implanted into the ears of someone nearby. Even the insistent clickity-clack of fingers across a computer keyboard seem to add to the flurry of traffic already flushed into my mind, via my overwhelmed ears. For me, there is one moment in my day that quiet is treasured. When I can no longer take it, I escape to a brick and mortar bookstore and treat myself to a hardback book. When I walk in, I am always taken aback by the towering displays of tomes; the precariously perched novels appearing like high divers waiting to plunge to the earth below. I find myself tipping-toeing around the pyramid tables, holding my breath to keep their descent from happening. I scan the plethora of shelves for something to read. Then, without warning, I see it. Hiding away, leaned back against a cold metal shelf, is the one I want; my book of choice, Ready Player One by Ernest Cline. The glossy red and yellow book jacket stands in sharp contrast to the harsh, dulled brown of its perch, like a square apple hanging from a gnarled tree. The crisp, jacket edges fall like a neatly pleated skirt around a strong sturdy backing. Embossed letters softly raise themselves to my eyes as if to say, ‘hello’, and bid me to take them home. I spy uniformed ivory pages sandwiched between the black binding, small gaps in the spacing attempt to cry out with a silent, ‘open at me first’. My mind reels at what might be uncovered once I take it home, do I dare? The hardback emits such a yearning to me, that I cannot stop a gently quivering hand from reaching out and lifting it off the ledge. At first touch, the novel is cool and smooth beneath warm meager fingers. The imprinted title on the book’s sleeve rolls beneath my fingertips, like gently sloping mountains...
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