I love the smell, the feel, the secrets of old paper. Yellowing pages attract me like moth to light – they are a time machine – a glimpse into another era, the significance of the words and images transformed and enhanced by what has come into the world since – a snapshot of a moment filled with promise that we now know whether it was fulfilled.
I love holding old stuff, admiring the work done with old tools I can barely fathom let alone understand how the raw materials became this.
“There are only three stories,” someone said, or was it fewer, or more?
Google The Great and Powerful yields:
“Every story is either The Iliad or The Odyssey.” Perhaps I need to read those again.
A Mr. Booker told the New York Times once that there are seven basic plots. 1. Overcoming the Monster; 2. Rags to Riches; 3. The Quest; 4. Voyage and Return; 5. Rebirth; 6. Comedy; 7. Tragedy.
Leo Tolstoy suggested there are two stories: A man goes on a journey. A stranger comes to town.
Borges said four stories: A love story between two people; a love story among three people; the struggle for power; the voyage.
There are 7 billion stories, and one: We are born, we live, we die.
Tell me a story, won’t you?