reunited with murakami
09/01/2010 § 1 Comment
Today, I made the lengthy 20 minute bus-ride into San Telmo, oh how I miss that barrio. Since moving to Recoleta/Once, I have been a fiend of the written word. I don’t think I have read this much since I first moved to Toronto and my parents, ones who decidedly like to go against the grain, forwent the television. I guess I owe it to them, this fervour for literature, the spark to ignite a furious frenzy of consuming pages at four-hundred-and-fifty-one degrees farenheit. As a result of my literative overdose, I made the trip to San Telmo in order to purchase a new-used book from Walrus Bookstore.
This is a bookstore I have only ever seen in my dreams. I wrote a post about it on TheExpeditioner because I love it that much. Going into the bookstore, you feel like you are walking into a personal study. Books cram three walls and an island of shelves. It smells like pages that were once loved, held onto for one-and-a-half minutes, then gone, only to be held once more by these very hands. I was scanning the shelves, noticing that a lot of the copies are exactly like the ones I have buried in storage in Toronto. It brought a pang of homesickness, I miss the city, my parents, my people, my books. I used the image of snow and cold as my antidote. Homesickness quickly flushed itself out of my thoughts.
I was about to pick up a Kerouac, Subterraneans, small, barely a hundred pages, when I refocused my eyes onto a book tucked in behind. Although I already have a copy back home, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles cried “Pick me! Pick me!” Anyone who has seen a copy knows that it should last me a great deal longer than the handbook-sized alternative. So, I bought it, I already began reading it. Why didn’t I bring it in the first place? Why was it not chosen, amongst the 15 or so books I did choose to bring? Well, because if I brougt it, I coudn’t buy it in San Telmo. Obviously.
I have a feeling it is going to be ranked on the top-shelf of my collection when I get home, which means I won’t want it to go anywhere. However, I also have the feeling that I will want to share it with someone, give it to someone in need of a Murakami-dose. Do you know what this means? I can comfortably give a copy away, without the gut-wrenching impulse to go find another copy to fill its empty slot.