|Photo taken here.|
I want someone who I can spend all day with in a bookstore, who knows the books I would love and point them out to me. I want someone with whom I can sit down in a coffee shop and completely ignore while we’re both absorbed in the books we’re currently devouring.
If he thinks Chuck Palahniuk sucks, he shouldn’t be afraid to tell me so. I want to argue with him when he says he thinks Aimee Bender simply produces ordinary chick-lit with twice the verbosity of other writers.
I want someone who pushes me to read classics like Crime and Punishment and Catch-22, because god knows I’m in too deep in contemporary reads. That said, he should read all the Harry Potter books at my suggestion, because I want him to explore more worlds to get lost in.
I want someone who knows the difference between Alice in Wonderland and Through The Looking-Glass. I want someone with whom I can discuss The Little Prince and all its life lessons. I want someone whose collection of books isn’t limited to whatever Dan Brown book is currently topping the lists.
It’s not necessarily someone who likes the same books I do. Rather, it’s about having someone whose insight and perspective can teach me to view literature from different and interesting angles. Someone who can, with every flip of a page, delve into another universe and eventually emerge in reality, refreshed from a dip in fiction.
I want someone who spends more money on books than on anything else, because he’ll not roll his eyes at me when I say that leaving bookstores without having bought a book makes me die a little inside.
There’s so much to be said about a person who finds beauty in the printed word, who appreciates that new-book smell, who gets a slight rush of adrenaline when he enters a bookstore, whether it’s a secondhand shop or a chain store.
His bookshelves are sagging with the weight of his collection. His bookmarks are worn ragged around the edges. His vocabulary is rich, his grammar flawless, his spelling impeccable. His words are sometimes not his own, and that’s okay — quoting Bukowski isn’t something I complain about.