splendid moonlight

I find myself staring at books on my Shelfari page. I find myself removing Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice from my Favorites shelf. I find myself wondering if it was the right thing to do. After all, Jane’s long sentences and use of the word “affected” were fascinating to me and I knew I wouldn’t soon forget her. I found myself wanting, as I laid on the futon on the floor of my old room, to be as witty as Elizabeth.

And of course, there was Mr. Darcy - intelligent, handsome, brooding Mr. Darcy. I longed to run in the rain, have my face flushed from the effort and have Mr. Darcy meet me in the middle of an open field, have him murmur sweet nothings to me as we go off into the sunset.

I find myself mourning over the loss of my books, remembering how they felt, remembering the colors and figures on their covers, the places where I read them, the places where I found them - was it from some overly lit book store? Or some dark, dusty thrift shop? - as I remove yet another one from my list. It’s John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men this time.

I remember frequently pausing in front of it on my various trips to the bookstore, perplexed. Always it stood on its spot on the shelf, thin and almost sad; staring at me in the face as if trying to tell me something. So one day I finally gave in and bought it even though I didn’t particularly liked mice. I bought it even though I never heard of it spoken by anyone before, no reviews nor recommendations.

I remember how depressed I was for days; the last few pages stabbing me in places I didn’t know existed. I remember how the letters blurred and un-blurred with each wave of tears, how I hid in my room afraid that my companions would notice how swollen my eyes were and would not believe me if I told them it was because of this darn book and not because of a boy.

Was it the right thing to do? To take down books from their places, out of my favorites list perhaps forever? What right do I have? Such masterpieces!