Joanna Clapps Herman

A book is an object too. Some books fit in the hand as if measured for yours. There’s the dry papery smell of the pages, and each page has its own distinct rustle as it turns. I have one set of red leather-bound Shakespeare volumes housed in a leather box, with gold lettering. I found this cache in a dusty secondhand book shop in Shandaken, Upstate for 10 dollars. I’ve rarely read from them. There is a joy in seeing them as I walk by my bookshelves. Each year they become stairs in my presepio when I am delighted again by their red gloss in my life again.