Peace

... is that feeling when you open a new copy of a beloved book. In my case, it's a set of books: Complete Works of Jane Austen in one big hardbound copy, with a beautiful engraved cover and gilded pages.

I don't usually like purchasing "Complete Works" of anybody. If one is really interested in some author, one should bloody well buy the individual books. There's something of a "let's get it over with" and less of a "let's savor it slowly and reread the interesting bits" attitude about any complete-works-in-one-big-fat-book kind of a book. But a hardbound copy! And not just any hardbound, especially the new ones with the flappy covers on them which you can remove, but one in which a) there is NO ridiculous flappy cover in bright colors and b) each page has a little gold edging on it, so that when the book is closed and you look down upon the pages, a distorted version of you stares back and c) you can caress the book and what you feel is not something sleek and plastic-y, but something more well worn, with beautiful textures and interesting depths and curves.

I didn't open the book as soon as I bought it. I let it sit on my dressing table and every day, I would touch it a bit and smell its pages. And then, finally, when the moment was right (today, after a bath), I opened it carefully. The pages were delicate, the smell of 'new book' permeated the air around me and then, when I smoothed my hand on the page that had just been turned, it crackled. The bliss!