Six years ago, I walked into a ramshackle bookstore in the left bank of Paris & something in my soul shifted. I have always loved books & the worlds of words contained in them but until then I never thought that it could be this: a sinuous stream of kaleidoscopic thought, an abode for the poor dreamer. That night (in a musky room of a slightly-dodgy boarding house in the 18th arrondissement), I wrote these words:
“…ridiculous as it may seem, stepping into this tiny English bookstore in Paris felt like the entire reason why I was in Europe; the endpoint of the crossing of continents.
& now, six years from that day, I am realising that one doesn’t get many moments like that in one’s lifetime. That moment when lock meets key; that quick, momentary tightening before things click into place, whereby one can gently sigh & say: ah, yes. Yes. Do you remember what it was like, to be young & idealistic? Yet untouched by the world. Even if it was a very long time ago, you must have been like that once because everyone was before, even if they have grown quite a fair bit since.
This blog was started after a prolonged silence & an irreversible unravelling. It is an effort at pursuing respite, a harkening back to the things that once brought joy – selah, if you will – after a long time of wandering & wondering. It is inspired by a quote from George Whitman, the quixotic & sadly deceased bookseller of the rag-&-bone store, Shakespeare & Company:
“Be not inhospitable to strangers, lest they be angels in disguise.”
These words, a reinterpretation of the bible verse Hebrews 13:2, are painted & forever immortalised above the slanted indoor-doorway of said bookstore. They resonate deeply because this is my story – always has been, always will be – of venturing out & returning destitute, of running away & running back home. Home. In the words of fictional character Holly Golightly:
“Home is where you feel at home. I’m still looking.”
& so am I, so am I. & when I finally arrive, oh, on that fateful, glorious day, I would like to feel a cascading warmth; I would like to hear that all-familiar voice say: hello, welcome stranger. Welcome home.
More to come.