Of parchment and vellum

I love books, and I love reading. One of the reasons I enjoy having a PDA is that I have at any time with me a shelf of books at my disposal, for perusing during any spare minutes I may have, time wasted waiting in line, on a bus, between lectures. This time can be absorbed into worlds imaginary and very real. Characters and subplots and twists and turns. I love stories, I love telling them and I love hearing them. There is something intimately appealing about libraries, even though I tend to frequent book shops much more often. My father wants to build himself a library, curious as he doesn't read. For him it is simply a place to relax when he retires, among dusty tomes and mahogony and a Grandfather clock, chiming relentlessly away at each hour. My father is, I think, the type of man who would smoke a pipe in days gone by, when such habits were not known to be harmful. But he too senses the appeal in being surrounded by such volumes. When I am done here in waterloo, I think I will spend a great deal of time reading outside in the sun, worry free for a couple of weeks, before new worries claim me once again.