A Farewell To Love

  There's a love language veiled in books - in reading and writing - and in feelings woven into words, giving life to empty pages. It's not explicit, the way a secret confession may lie in the curves of vowels, rather barely revealed underneath shadowing layers of anecdotes and tales. In that case, love seems subtle and quiet and soft - although, in some others, love drips like ink from paper and drowns readers with the ease of sirens.

  Nonetheless, every author keeps sheaths over feelings - if they're not comfortable enough to shout and pour them into their words. Andre Aciman talked about it once - on aching wounds and heartbreak hidden under covers, behind metaphors. In his words, he puts sheaths to hidden feelings to avoid staring at them. And these feelings might go a long way - from trauma and loss to caring and longing. 

 There are very few things in this life more heartfelt than longing. Recalling past feelings in tenderness or wishing for love to come with a whirlwind of emotions. Laying alone with remaining thoughts about nights with a person to hold on to. Missing their voice in both whispers and octaves too high. Reading and thinking about them. Writing and thinking of them. It doesn’t get more poetic than this. 

  The love language disguised in paperbacks is uncovered in dedications - sweet messages unfolded in just enough lines and kind words as a reminder of what was resting in the back of the author's mind all along, no matter which thoughts might have also passed through. As said in a quote I've stolen from someone else: here is this piece of art I made for an audience of thousands - but really, every word is for you.

  It doesn't have to be blunt - the sentiment behind the words - or even relate to whatever subject the writing's about. A dedication is given from a place of love, and is simply supposed to aim at a particular heart. It doesn't even have to be real, for what it's worth. Lemony Snicket spent his entire life writing love letters and declarations to his made up lover. Every single book published in his name is devoted to his beloved Beatrice - in bittersweet life-and-death analogies that make me laugh and swell and sob all at once.

  It's true that Daniel Handler is a romantic, letting it be known even at the most unfortunate of events he's ever told. But isn't every writer? Doesn't one require at least a drop of romanticism to be able to put life into words? Well, that's a whole other topic - because I'm not here regarding only the writers. I'm seeking romance pulled out of the sheaths and coming up for air from underneath the sentences. I'm searching, as a reader would, for memories in between the lines.

  I went to a bookstore the other day - the kind where you can find already loved old stories. The quirk was to give one and take one, but I didn't have a used book to give away at the moment, so I was just looking around during the wait for an appointment. The bookstore was just around the street, and I never would have found it if not for the need of a distraction for a few moments.

  As I walked around, hands behind my back, with no intention other than just look at the titles, a plain hardcover caught my eye. And there it was. Ernest Hemingway. I pulled it right out of the shelf. It was my first pick: The Garden of Eden. Even though I could give a million adjectives to Hemingway's writing, I had honestly never read anything by him to the core - he's the kind of writer that pours love into his sentences - playing with nostalgia and melancholy, tragedies and commotion, honesty and brutality. 

  Hemingway writes to make you feel, and that may relate to emotions already felt within the one hit by those words. Life from his perspective has quite a sentimental nuance, and doesn't require any more information to let you know he writes with passion. I guess the romance entwined in the arrangement the author makes, translates to love in real life, bringing out memories long forgotten or feelings in combustion - turning readers into likewise romantics; twisting their thoughts into love. And that may be the reason why, when I flipped open the worn out book to the first page, I found this:

"To my dearest James, for your life, may you attain
that ultimate perfection, which is simplicity.
All my love, Lisa. Christmas, 1986"

  The book that called to me just happened to be a long lost love letter. Of course I bought it.

  This book was given as a Christmas gift back in 1986. And that, to me, brings a whole new meaning to these stained pages - holding close, beyond the author's own feelings, a kindred sentiment between lovers. It might relate to the story, or not, but it doesn't matter - as long as they get the message. At the same time, however, I'm saddened by the thought of it being given away. There's a certain kind of poetry in love being left behind, or fading with time. I could only imagine some tragical ending to a great romance that might have led to this fragment reminiscent from that past love getting to this bookstore - so it could then be found by me.

  I assumed these names belonged to a couple primarily according to the theme of the book. Still, keep in mind that I'm not here to talk about this book and how it may or may not be connected to Lisa and James. I didn’t even know what it was about when I picked it up, anyways. What really struck me were the notes left in the margins, a dedication to a lover - the final destination to the whereabouts of the reader’s thoughts when they read about love. This means that Lisa read that book, all about love and sensuality, and those thoughts brought her mind back to James. The person your mind runs back to when you think about love - that’s to whom your dedication belongs.

  Whether they're printed in or written down, these charming reminders state what thousands of words couldn't ever explain. Tiny sprinkles of affection like dedications and sweet notes keep the love buried in books alive and out of oblivion - devotion rests in the pause after semicolons and yearning is intertwined in cursive from early drafts. There's a love language in writing to an audience, but deep down meaning every word for someone special. There's a love language in books - in reading and writing and giving them away - because they will always hold fragments of love in past tenses.

  

A message left for teenagers on a worn out copy of
The Astrology of Personality by Dane Rudhyar:
"19 year olds in a prison dorm and the sinister,
anti-sexual impact of their guards on their lives."

An old edition of The Goliard Poets gifted
from a son to his father in the 50s:
"March 17, 1950. For Father, with love, Andrew."