Eyre

On the unfinished bookshelf by the window, novels of various intrigues crowd each other so tightly a single sheath of paper could not slip between them. Their diverse spines are new and crisp with a varnished vellum finish, leather old and crumbling, woven canvas fabric tattered at the ends. Some passed over by many hands--some not. Sitting dignified and faded, a recherche edition of Jane Eyre graces the top shelf. Her pages are thick like unbleached construction paper-substantial and Deckle-edged. A clean, aged scent wafts from her core- the smell of old books and wisdom, the smell of a language lost over time. The words are not lasered smoothly onto the pages, rather some of the letters float ever so slightly along their lines -- slight impressions stamped into the pages from an actual press. There are no intricate and dallying illustrations, only words, generous and lavish, can seduce the story to float and breathe from the pages. Gold squares ascend the slate blue spine, adorning t