I'll admit it. As much as I might chide the posh, pompous, overbearing, arrogant, brash, narrow-minded, high-fallutin' Crane Brothers of Frasier fame, there's more than a small part of me that can relate to their plight for the finer things in life. They're caricatures of the snooty, leather-patch-on-the-wool-blazer professor-type of book lover that I sometimes aspire to be, or at least enjoy.
Allow me to describe in depth the perfect afternoon for a bibliophile like myself:
The summer warmth has conceded the battle to the cool, intensifying winds of fall. The burning leaves upon the stately oaks and maples cling hopelessly to home before riding those very same winds across the common green. As the sun slowly dips on the horizon, painting the cumulus-filled sky a thousand colors of fire, I stand before the 10 foot windows of the Hiemstra library, surveying the chilling weather from the cozy confines of a room nestled on the fourth floor of the family estate.
From floor to ceiling the stately red brilliance of cherry wood holds the collection of 3000 hardcover first editions in neat, alphabetical order, the polished rails of the bookcases as smooth as glass and as pristine and crystal. I pull a signed copy of Leif Enger's newest novel off the shelf and nestle down in softness of Italian leather in my handcrafted easy chair with matching ottoman. I take my seat directly next to Carla's matching chair, separated only by the glass-top end table between us and the diverse and wonderful worlds that our novels are set in.
In front of us is a robust fire, crackling with such fervor and syncopation that it seems to be a percussion symphony, snapping and cracking in time with our hearts. On the table between us sit our beverages, a dark-red Napa Valley Cabernet in an over-sized goblet and a steaming porcelain mug of cappuccino, the steam wafting up to the cathedral ceiling before disappearing into thin air, just like any reservations or tension in our bodies or minds.
As I sit, I feel the smooth, leathery softness of my book, along with the rough, uneven edges of the parchment, each sheet of every page unique in itself, just like every paragraph of this stunning literary masterpiece. I begin to read, amused and amazed at Leif's witty yet poignant prose. I marvel over his ability to put words together like they're meant to be wed. I chuckle. I sniffle. I cry. I sigh. I sniff the winds of prose and soak up the ambiance of sharing a piece of literary heaven with my beloved.
And thus as the curtain closes on the evening sky and darkness spills from the heavens, we sit and read, knowing that in the sad, melancholy occasion of us finishing our books, there are plenty more to take their place.
Thus endeth my confession of my life lived as a bibliophile.
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