Whenever I am depressed or blue I reach for my bookshelves. It's always the same book I pull down although it does seem to move around a lot on its own. It's not the bible or any great book on life, it's a simple blue book filled with story-type observations about life. I open it at any page and for some reason it always opens to the right page I need in any circumstance. How it does this I do not know, but I'm not complaining. When I have read the two or three page account my head becomes clearer and life seems to take shape once more. It's one of the few books I own that I remember the circumstance of the purchase of the book, and none save one that I remember the day so perfect. It was in December, years ago although I can't remember the year, it could even have been the first of December. It was raining; I think we even saw a bit of hail that day. I remember siting at the back door and writing about the storm. That was the day I bought the blue book. Why I went out in such weather to get a book that could easily have waited until the next day I can't quite remember, but I'm sure I had my reasons. Why I remember that day so well down to the weather and what I wrote, I have no idea. I don't think it was my intention to commit these things to memory, what purpose could it ever have? But tucked away in the back of my mind I have the history of this book in my head and although there is no longer a price tag on it I think it cost me around $19.95. This simple over looked blue book; you could probably pick it up for $2 now. I doubt even the author knows its true value. In the words of Bennet and Royal, 'the author is dead,'1 so let the novel speak for itself. This book speaks volumes to me, but were you to ask me what it was about, I’d remain silent. It is about everything and nothing, it says so much but tells no story. What makes it so great to me? It’s mine and it helps me to fly.
1. Not literally in this case, to the best of my knowledge anyway.
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