Reading a borrowed copy of Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man on a sunny Friday afternoon

There are some books that are a great joy to read, not because of their words or their story (though these are certainly important components), but because of the books themselves - the weight of them in your hands, the texture of the pages, the smell of them. New books have a smell that is pleasurable indeed; but it's the older books I'm talking about in this instance, particularly old paperbacks published decades ago that have somehow remained in good condition, though still noticably well-loved through many readings. There's a feeling of literally diving in when you open these novels, a submergence into its world. Maybe it's because you can feel the stories in the pages - not just the written ones, but the story of the book itself: its binding, its paper, its ink. You can feel the calm and the chaos contained in the buzzing stillness of its cover.