I've been waiting to write this post because I almost couldn't find the words for it.
Earlier in December, before Christmas, Aunt Bert sent a letter saying that there was a package to follow and that it contained family heirlooms...crocheted handkerchiefs of Great-grandma Cruce, a 1950s tablecloth that she's used and wanted me to have, a little pincushion. I was watching the mail for it, worried that it might get left out by the mailbox in snowy weather or something.
Well, the package arrived, safe and sound, and I opened it up that evening, completely unsuspecting. (I should know better, really...)
Inside were all the heirlooms she'd written about; delicate, lovely handkerchiefs that Maggie was enraptured by, a little pink and yellow pincushion that made me smile, and a tablecloth that looked like it had been chosen especially for my kitchen.
And something that took my breath away, very literally. I couldn't breathe for a minute, it was so wonderful!
An old, old book, tied up with a satin ribbon covered in little shiny Eiffel Towers. Not just any old book....
...but an 1887 copy of my very favorite book in all the world, Les Miserables! My hands were shaking as I opened it up and found the familiar, brilliant words of Victor Hugo, the unbelievably beautiful illustrations, smelled the ancient book scent that is peculiarly musty and softly sweet. They still shake, every time I open it up.
Here's an excerpt, so you may understand why the book is so dear to me:
Nothing is small, in fact; any one who is subject to the profound and penetrating influence of nature knows this. Although no absolute satisfaction is given to philosophy, either to circumscribe the cause or to limit the effect, the contemplator falls into those unfathomable ecstasies caused by these decompositions of force terminating in unity. Everything toils at everything.
Algebra is applied to the clouds; the radiation of the star profits the rose; no thinker would venture to affirm that the perfume of the hawthorn is useless to the constellations. Who, then, can calculate the course of a molecule? How do we know that the creation of worlds is not determined by the fall of grains of sand? Who knows the reciprocal ebb and flow of the infinitely great and the infinitely little, the reverberations of causes in the precipices of being, and the avalanches of creation? The tiniest worm is of importance; the great is little, the little is great; everything is balanced in necessity; alarming vision for the mind.
I could spend an hour on those two paragraphs alone, reading them aloud and thinking of the implications. Isn't it strong and well-thought out writing that endures through generations, through decades and cultures?
The words are treasures, the tattered covers of this volume are treasures, the love and thoughtfulness that chose it and packed it with care to bring great joy are treasures. Thank you, Aunt Bert; I cry as I write this and can't wait to sit on the deck this summer and read aloud from Les Miserables together. I love you!
