The Sound of Books

I'm picky about a good place to read: too much noise or too much silence distracts me, as do light playing on the page or through my fingers, another person within my line of sight, and thoughts of what's for dinner.  (Honestly, how do I finish reading anything?)  But I think I've unearthed the perfect spot: Barnes and Noble (let the angels sing).  Often hand-in-hand with a Starbucks, so the scent of caffeine and creamer partially permeate the store, mixing with what you already know is one of my favorite scents--ink on paper.  I like kneeling down in a secluded aisle and just picking books up, reading the first page and perhaps the plot summary, and carefully tucking them back in among the rest.  The more books that pass through my hands, the happier I feel.  My favorite are the special edition hardbacks of the complete works of Jane Austen or Charles Dickens or who else--the kind that have ridges on the spines and intricate lettering with sparkly filigree.  The kind that should decorate the walls of a Disney princesses' chambers and instead I want decorating my own.  I always like to stop in the notebook section and examine the petite calendars complete with antique floral patterns on their covers and red ribbons to hold your place.  I like the sassy post-it notes and electronic dictionary bookmarks.  And I like that everyone is quiet and hidden away in their own corner of the store, but all know the others are there.  I like being surrounded by people, both those physically present and those present in the books they wrote, but not having the pressure of talking to any of them: it is up to me to approach a book, say "how do you do," and then decide whether to take it home.  Most of all, I love the illusion that all the shelves upon shelves of volumes are mine, at least for a couple of hours.