Old Books To Read Novels & Stories

Not that I was expecting anyone to be there seeing that it was late but at times, one can't be too sure especially on some things. ''Now, let's see what Lucas and his group reads.'' I murmured, walking towards a shelf of old books. I picked one up and immediately, the title caught my attention. It was about old magic of kings, queens and demons and somehow, I had a feeling that I ought to read that book. I didn't know what drew me in but soon, I found myself reading the book.

The librarian, a wise old man with spectacles perched on his nose, had greeted them warmly and invited them to explore the dusty shelves filled with ancient tomes. As Scarlett's fingers grazed the spines of the books, a particular leather-bound volume caught her eye. Its title, "The Prophecy of the Shifting Stars," called to her with an inexplicable pull. She plucked it from the shelf and dusted off its cover, revealing faded golden letters etched into the leather. Curiosity burned within Scarlett. She opened the book and began to read aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. The words flowed like poetry from her lips, resonating deeply within her soul.

“Only because it’s an emergency.” Elmo rubbed his eyes, and blinked away fatigue. As his vision cleared he found himself looking at Lucas’ bookshelf, and his heart sank as he surveyed the spines of books his friend loved so much. There were copies of The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, The Three Investigators and The Secret Seven, as well as modern mystery thrillers by authors such as Lee Child and James Patterson. But there were also older novels that Elmo recalled as movies on TCM but had never read. He saw Treasure Island and Ivanhoe, Tom Sawyer and Robinson Crusoe.

“I brought you some books.” “Hm?” “Read something light and pleasant before bed. It won’t give you nightmares.” Who reads detective novels before bed? Calvin didn’t even remember he owned a collection of essays—a hardcover first edition with the author’s signature on the title page. “I don’t read essays or poetry collections.” That kind of writing was, to him, too sentimental, pretentious, and meaningless. “Just try something different. It might help. This author’s writing is very beautiful and moving.”

I can’t explain it, but I don’t have to, either, if I don’t bring it up, and I’m not one to ever start conversations. I sniff the paperback—old, musty paper, glue, and Justus—and set it on the pallet. The next book in the pile, Peter Kropotkin’s The Conquest of Bread, has a picture of two men chopping down a tree on the cover. It smells the same. All the books are dog-eared paperbacks with yellowed pages—Walden by Henry David Thoreau, Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler, Critique of Practical Reason by Immanuel Kant, several each by Ursula K. Le Guin and N. K. Jemison, and a massive hardback of Plato’s collected works. The Plato is the only one that looks like it hasn’t been read a hundre

Like going back in time. Sunlight streamed delicately through the tall windows, creating golden strips that lit up random sections of books. It was a literary paradise. And I, daughter of a schoolteacher and a voracious reader by nature, found myself smiling for the first time in days. “Oh my God…” I whispered, running my fingers along the spine of a brown leather-bound volume. “There are more books here than in my university’s library.” It wasn’t an exaggeration. There were rare editions. Works in Latin. Books on philosophy, art, psychology, classical literature. Translations of Russian poets. Treatises on ancient wars. French romances. I felt like a child in a toy store.

Or they sold them when they moved to new cities or towns when books became burdensome for them. Old booksellers knew where and how they could find those books, and they were very good at hunting and stalking them. Even they knew that at which part of the country had the most reading rate. Some book hunters rushed to the shops in the quarters where they could obtain books. Those shops were meant for buying old stuff like tin pots, broken radios or TVs, or outdated newspaper.

The windows faced the gardens, and the morning light was golden and warm and poured across the reading chairs like honey. She ran her fingers along the spines. Classics, histories, business books that probably belonged to Alexander. Nothing that looked even remotely interesting. “Where do they keep the fun books?” She moved to a different shelf where the light didn't quite reach. There were older volumes here—paperbacks mixed with hardcovers, spines cracked from actual use instead of just decoration. “This is more like it.” She crouched down, scanning titles. A thriller, a mystery and finally a romance with a cover so embarrassingly dramatic she almost laughed out loud. She reached for it an

A reader? I feel drawn to the shelf like a moth to a flame. My fingers trail over the spines — classic literature, philosophy, ancient history. Lost in the titles, my eyes land on a beautiful leather-bound edition of Wuthering Heights. I rise onto my toes, straining, my fingers just brushing its edge. It wobbles and then falls from the shelf with a heavy thud that sends a cloud of dust into the air making me sneeze twice.

By the time Momma passed I was married with a little one on the way, so my chance for college had passed, too. But I never stopped reading. Got me a nice little library out back, filled with all sorts of books crammed on bookshelves made by my own two hands. Books like Tom Sawyer, Edgar Allen Poe stories, Huck Finn and The King in Yellow, (that last one I don’t read much cause it always gives me strange dreams), some old mysteries, a clutch of Lovecraft’s books (they hurt my head, too, so I don’t read them much neither), my Hardy Boys books from growing up, and a whole bunch of newer ones by Stephen King and Dean Koontz. Got some heavy thinking books, too. The family King James, The Book of