An Ode to Old Friends

Old friends revisited after many decades, changed and still the same, as it should be. Only these are the friends of introspection, the portraits orally painted long ago with brush strokes writ in words, once upon a time swiftly read and now more leisurely perused and more fully treasured.

Books, books that can be touched and smelled and even, at special times, caressed. Books that rest on nightstands awaiting our return like faithful companions, truer than most in many, many ways.

Books. Like us complicated composite entities with personalities of their own, the bridge to sentience, more than the sum of their characters, much more than the sum of their words.

I’m rereading Robert Graves.

Three of his novels saturated with history, flavored in speculation and seasoned with insight.

What a privilege and what a delight.
_______

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