The Address Book
On my last birthday I received an address book, beautifully bound and tempting to anyone fond of books and paper.
I am one of those perplexing creatures who wander through book stores to stroke books I will never buy and no aisle in discount department stores tempts me more than the stationery aisle, but this address book haunts me.
If I knew that any of the friends who joined together to purchase this book read my blog, I would not admit this, but many times I have considered returning the gift... or worse, re-gifting it. Day after day I have eyed it on my night stand, like an untrusted acquaintance, waiting to make a tenuous peace.
In my mind there are two types of books: those which are full of words and are not to be written in, and those which are empty and are to be filled with words.
But this address book confuses me. It is not empty, as it suggests 32 address entries for every letter of the alphabet, but it is meant to be filled with the flowing script only possible with permanent ink, and I do not live among a people whose addresses can be written in permanent ink.
And friends, if you saw this book, you, too, would be convinced that it deserves the elegance only permitted through permanency.
And so, Dear Ones, if I bravely script your name and address in this book, will you contribute to the noble cause of elegance and never move?
I am one of those perplexing creatures who wander through book stores to stroke books I will never buy and no aisle in discount department stores tempts me more than the stationery aisle, but this address book haunts me.
If I knew that any of the friends who joined together to purchase this book read my blog, I would not admit this, but many times I have considered returning the gift... or worse, re-gifting it. Day after day I have eyed it on my night stand, like an untrusted acquaintance, waiting to make a tenuous peace.
In my mind there are two types of books: those which are full of words and are not to be written in, and those which are empty and are to be filled with words.
But this address book confuses me. It is not empty, as it suggests 32 address entries for every letter of the alphabet, but it is meant to be filled with the flowing script only possible with permanent ink, and I do not live among a people whose addresses can be written in permanent ink.
And friends, if you saw this book, you, too, would be convinced that it deserves the elegance only permitted through permanency.
And so, Dear Ones, if I bravely script your name and address in this book, will you contribute to the noble cause of elegance and never move?
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