A Personal View
by Paul White Ex Libris The book was old and covered in worn, cracked, scratched leather. It must have in existence for almost forever, during which time it was used and abused, thumbed through again and again. Its pages turned countless times, corners bent, folded and straightened once more. The gilt worn from the edges of those pages and, what little was left, was no longer bright and shiny but aged to an antique bronze. The blood-red silk ribbon, the page marker, was frayed. Long strands of silk thread dangled scruffily over the page. Each of those pages slowly yellowing…
