I Was Wooed By A Leather Clad Hemingway

Ever since I was a small child I have revered and adored books. My father took me for my first visit to the library when I was about 5 years old. Not being a child who reveled in childhood in fact, I found childhood insulting, I bypassed the children's section immediately and settled myself right into the Classical Greek section. I, of course, with my child's mind thought that the best and most important books must be huge. Therefore, needing my father's help in actually carrying the book, I sat at the library table with my copy of Greek mythology. My reading skills were not up to snuff at the time, but I was in book heaven. Not only was I with my favorite man in the whole wide world, but I was also getting my own library card that day. Imagine my delight at being able to take home any book that I wanted!

Many years have passed since that momentous occasion, but love for the written word has only grown stronger. However, my love has become fixated on a relatively small portion of this world's literature. My father and I have replaced the public library with memberships to societies. Please, do not confuse our society memberships with common book clubs. Alas, we belong to a society whose members love words wrapped in leather. That's right, leather bound books my friends. Now, I am well aware of the Freudian implications involved when my father and I receive the latest editions to our libraries and ask each other to feel and smell the books. It is truly a sensual experience that only another lover of the same persuasion could appreciate. My good friend Chad from college teases me and asks me if Hemingway, Tolstoy, or Plato are any better clad in their leathers. One word: Yes. The question, I must assume, can only be rhetorical. Take a strapping man like Hemingway, rub the scent of quality paper and ink on him, clad him in a leather jacket and you've got yourself a recipe for love. All that one may need to top it off is a fine wine and a good smoke.

Good Night.