That is my ideal place for retirement. If I have loads of money, I really like to buy a house in Hay. It's a small town with no train connection, but its remoteness also sets a good vibe for this town of books, isolated, far from the madding crowd, with only second-hand, mouldy and dusty books. Old books always give a strange kind of charm, travelled far in terms of time and space, they always have their own story to be told, besides the stories written within. I like to think about the identity of the original owner, where the book came from, the number of different owner in-between... did it come from a personal library of a book collector, or was it just part of the domestic decoration of a pretentious snob? It is like a mysterious thread connecting different people, or even different centuries. Like those lending records attached to the books of public libraries, I always feel intrigued by the previous readers. I've bought a small book of poetry of lord bryon. All pages were yellowed and the cover was creepily stained by human touch. This book must have been loved by its previous owner(s). I can almost feel the fanatical savour of this person to the book. Another book I've bought, charles lamb's essays of elia, it looks brand new though it was published in the early 20th Century. It must be placed on the shelf for a long time as "decoration" only. I hope I will give the books the respect they deserve by reading them sometimes, though I am afraid (and pretty sure) that the books in my house generally are also becoming part of the fixtures and fittings only, I read too slow. Sorry, books.
