Pick up enough books, and you are bound to find treasure. For example, from the library yesterday, I brought home a book by Richard Paul Evans, called Timepiece. On the fly leaf, is offered this insight:
Hope is a rare gift that, if we are lucky, comes to us with the power to heal
our lives. I've come to know that the deepest sense of hope often springs from
the hardest lessons in life. It is in the darkest skies that stars are best seen
-- perhaps it is divine irony that within the darkest moments we are capable of
revealing the greatest light, demonstrating what is best with humanity.
And this line from the prologue
It is the glance in the mirror that is of value [...] if we write but one book
in life, let it be our autobiography.
And almost best of all, the book feels perfect - it is only slightly bigger than the palm of my hand (like the book Emma Thompson reads as Elinor Dashwood in Sense and sensibility). I can tell already I'm going to like it, if only for the physical delight of holding such a book. The few words I've read so far are inviting me in. I just may have found a kindred spirit.
Have you ever experienced a similar connection with a book?