Aesthetic Picture Of Books นิยาย & เรื่องราว

“You can tell from here?” “I worked in a bookstore for years. I can recognize certain covers.” She leaned forward, looking more closely. “It’s probably not valuable, though. A lot of cafés use reproductions for decoration.” “You sound disappointed.” “I hate when people use books as decorations but never read them.” I looked at her with new interest. “You enjoy old books?” “I love them. The older, the better.” “Why?” She thought about the question for a moment. “Because they have history. Someone owned them before you. Maybe they carried them everywhere or wrote notes in the margins. Sometimes you find pressed flowers or old receipts between the pages. It feels like getting a tiny glimpse int

sign. To distract myself, I turn back to the shelves. The smell of old books was like a drug to me now. It is a mix of cedar, dried ink, and a hint of the outdoors that people brought in on their coats. Having the freedom to browse these stacks is a luxury I hadn't enjoyed since I was a child. I reach out, running my fingers over the spine of a contemporary romance by Alyssa Cole. I lingered on the texture of the dust jacket, lost in the cover art and the weight of the story inside.

I couldn’t, not until this was over. I walked slowly around the room instead, my fingers brushing along the spines of books. Economics. Global trade. Corporate strategy. Political biographies. Interesting. Aiden wasn’t just wealthy, he was educated to too. Something caught my eye near the back of a lower shelf..a small framed picture half-hidden behind a stack of books. I crouched slightly and pulled it free. Dust clung to the glass. I blew gently, clearing it. And then I froze.

That must be a good sign. They walked around the store, and each time Alecia picked up a book, Ryder added it to the stack in his hands. She kept waiting for him to protest even though she knew he wouldn’t. Ryder would spend anything on her. When she had scanned the whole store, and Ryder had at least eight books in his hands, she sat on a bench in front of the magazine section. Ryder sat by her side and looked at the covers of several books. She picked up a Glamour magazine and flipped through it, stopping when she found a picture of a girl with limbs like twigs. The model looked so gaudy with the gold painted all over her body – her eyes held a vague look as though she was already dead. “T

I close my curls and trace my way in front of the wall-size portrait again. Just when I am about to open my eyes a chunk of pages ruffle over from the corner at my face before it is all but scattered over the floor. Even the pages bring her perfume. I try to hold back to take my eyes on the photo, but my stubborn eyes stay glued to the pages. Yellowish cream with beautiful blood-red engravings; the pages look as exquisite as the owner of the palace is. Exotic! Yes, it has to be the correct word. Exotic. Everything about the place is exotic.

I said. I saw a book with an ancient cover. There is a specific thickness, a color that is foreign to me. And some of them are already foggy, and some are not. My eyes are drawn to the book with the words' Real power'. I took the book and put it on the table. When I opened the first page of the book, there was a painting of a handsome man. The man had a thin beard with a sharp facial jaw. His eyes were piercing but seemed to hold sadness. Even the pose of the man in the painting is quite stiff.