Which books do you like best?

Why we love books

Why do we actually read?
What is it that magically attracts us to books?
Maybe it's the smell that's trapped between the pages, like in a spider web?
Can it also be the envelope that has as many different variations as the colors between the rainbow?
Is it the whispering, scraping, and popping of the pages as you turn the pages?
And what about the feeling of holding a book in your hand? Like a tender baby bird - or a small elephant, depending on the case.
Is it the words that dance across the paper, sometimes weightless, sometimes pounding and always different?
Is it the feeling of security and intimacy when you are away from books that float in warm, soft candlelight?
Or is it just the stories that lodge in our thoughts and their actions that creep around in our dreams?
Reading is like jumping into the abyss, pressing the red button in the time machine or in the spaceship, like flying without wings, like dancing over water, like a fit of laughter for no reason or like ten kilos of chocolate that doesn't make you fat. Reading is like catching dreams in cans, like our mental cinema becoming a reality, or like someone seeing our deepest desires. Reading nourishes the small, glowing star in us who believes that anything is possible.

Do you hear the souls of the books whispering promises to us in auspicious voices?
Promises of adventures, incredible worlds, magical beings, other life experiences, historical events and much, much more? Of love, courage, hatred, betrayal and all other lower and highest feelings that one is able to feel? And above all the promise to forget the world we live in - to forget ourselves?

They are all different. Each one is an individual for itself: They can be old and wrinkled, young and white, shiny and dull, smooth and rough, slim or with a beer belly, beautiful and ugly, gloomy and brightly cheerful, devious and hurtful, dirty rascals or Sunday nerd , benevolent or sneaky, ... You can wear jewelry made of crumbs, a soft dust coat, patterns made of chocolate and grease stains, exciting scars from wild or neat written notes and markings or even the delicate perfume of parchment-thin petals.

Some will make us wiser, others will be flooded with pearly laughter or showered with salty tears, some we will want to throw against the wall and tear up, maybe we will even close a few and never touch them again, although we are still at the end don't know, and we will read the very special ones over and over again and write out quotes.

Row after row, the different universes in bright colors are stacked next to each other on the bookshelf. Above and below one another, squeezed, pushed in across, lying or standing straight. Our eyes slowly sweep over the familiar book spines and we are in our room, but at the same time in so many other places. And no matter what it is why we love her, one thing is certain: without her, our life would be inconceivable.