📚 I’ve been reading Arthur C Clarke’s book The Nine Billion Names of God. I read that particular short story in high school and it’s never left my mind. I guess because while it’s science fiction, it’s not the kind science fiction people immediately think of when they hear science fiction. You know, Pew! Pew! Pew!
I’m writing about it not because of the stories (which I’m enjoying), but because, it turns out, it reminds me of my childhood. Growing up my mom, despite being a big reader, didn’t buy books. All the books we read came from the library. In fact, I don’t think I bought any books until I bought textbooks in college. You know, now that I write that, it feels so odd to say.
In keeping with this tradition, I guess, this Clarke book I’m reading came from the Brooklyn Public Library. It had to come from the deep storage section which isn’t accessible to us mere mortals. It’s a really old book. And it smells differently than the new books I often buy now. Sorry, ma.
This book smells like my past, my childhood. It smells of stories.