I was reading a book called The Enemies of Books by William Blades from about 1888 yesterday and it was claiming that children (among others) are among the enemies of books. Considering Emily’s history, I was congratulating myself on having a child who is not an enemy of books. You know how the universe is apt to smack you down when you’re feeling smug? Yeah.
I had out my facsimile of the Kelmscott Chaucer today- reading it- and Emily comes up, looks over my shoulder at the beautiful engravings of Burne-Jones and says “Ooo! How pretty! I’d like to colour it.”
Blerg!?! Colour in my Kelmscott Chaucer? Honey, I’ll break your hands. It might be a facsimile but it’s still a d*mned expensive book. At least she only said she’s like to instead of getting out paint or crayons or whatever. I’ll copy the pages she wants to colour and let her have at it.
Also, is it just me or is Chaucer seductive? I fall into his words like I’d fall into a river and get swept away and forget to stop when I should be doing other things.