Romans & histoires Books Like The Things They Carried

She seems so happy after the last paper and I can see her sitting on op of Olive’s locker. I smile at her then go about cleaning my desk and selecting the books that I want to carry home with me for that one week.I pick a few African literature pieces:Things fall apart by Chinua Achebe and The River Between by Ngugi Thiong’o.I have started to really love literature classes especially when we started discussing different books.I also a few other books in my backpack and make a note to carry my diary with me.I hope I don’t forget that because it feels like a part of me,a week will be too long without it.

Wow. I was drooling. It wasn't just a room with books. It was a sanctuary. Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with hardcovers, a rolling ladder, a massive fireplace that looked like it hadn't been used in decades. The scent of old paper and leather hit me, comforting and familiar. I ran my finger along the spines. ‘The Art of War’, ‘Sun Tzu’. ‘Histories of the Roman Empire’. Biographies of kings and conquerors. Heavy stuff. Interspersed with them were fiction classics. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Dumas.

The title and some space to store some things in the game are good too…but…’ The system interrupted his thoughts “Kindly read the book “the things that are permissible to bring in the library” before you read anything else. This is the number one book that is most read by the past leaders and now you would be the one to carry their legacy….Con-gra-tu-lations.”

Sasha was hesitating to enter pass the school gate. It seems like she's going to be more in trouble today than usual. I'm not tough but here I go, she thought and walk inside. Opening her locker to get some books, a few folded paper fell. She knows what those papers are; warnings from her bullies. Although she knows what's written inside, she would always read them. It has the same words like "you're ugly" "quit school" "go die" . Sometimes, she wonder how those bully think and why they think like that when she hasn't done anything wrong. She pities them, most of the time.

I had to move on. The last few boxes were heavier, filled with all the books I’d collected over the years. I had always loved the quiet comfort of reading, the way a story could carry me far away from my own life. Now, the books felt like anchors, reminders of the person I had been before Adrian. I wanted to take them all with me, even if they crowded the car. They were my history, and I wasn’t ready to leave it behind entirely. I glanced at the calendar taped to my wall...a simple thing with bright yellow squares marking the days.

I wandered through the compound until I found myself in the library, as usual. I browsed the shelves for a while before pulling out a thick book about the northern territories. The book was old, the pages yellowed and crinkled with age, but the hand-drawn illustrations were still beautiful. I got comfortable in one of the chairs near a window and began to read. Most of the content was about trade routes and pack histories, but one chapter caught my attention. It described the far northern mountains—the ones beyond the Thornwood, where no one ever set foot.

I ran my fingers along the spines as I walked, feeling the ridges of their titles, each one a promise of an adventure waiting to unfold. The leather-bound tomes, their covers worn and faded, whispered of a time when they had been new and full of hope. Now, they were treasures—forgotten gems waiting for someone to rediscover their magic. There were ladders, too, nestled against the shelves—long wooden ones that reached for the heavens.

There are a couple of nature guides wedged beside a history book on the Lewis and Clark expedition. I find myself smiling as I skim the titles. Perhaps these were all simply gifts, or were purchased as office décor - but the more I look, the harder I find that to believe. Most of the books are too worn, and many have bookmarks sticking out of the top. This collection is well-used and well-loved.

“You walked three days across the dead grid to bring us stories?” “Not stories. Manuals. Repair guides, medicine for the machines. Stuff you can’t eat, but maybe it keeps you eating.” Riss slid the suitcase forward, panels and sheafs and even—god, even an old Nintendo manual, propped between anatomy texts and an 800-page repair guide for water turbines. Carolina let her hand drift over the plastic, the paper. The books were precious. The knowledge was more precious. “You want protection,” Carolina said. “Shared purpose,” Riss replied, with a shrug. “Your people make stuff work. My people don’t get shot for asking questions.”

He picked up the paperback. Turned it over. A novel he didn’t know. Not important. A paperback with a cracked spine and the specific softness of a much loved book. He opened it to the turned down page. She’d underlined something. One sentence. In pencil. Faint. The pencil of someone who underlined things carefully. Not aggressively. Just marking something worth returning to. He read it. The things we carry for others are never really burdens, they’re the proof that someone trusted us with their weight.