I judge books by their covers. I’m not being euphemistic here, I just find that a book worth binding nicely and decorating with gold leaf and a ribbon bookmark is usually a book worth reading. You don’t see many books made like that anymore. But, surprisingly, these quality books pack the shelves of the little school library where I work. There’s “The Collected Works of Victor Hugo” and Alex Haley’s “Roots” and “Alice in Wonderland,” all bound in jewel tones and illustrated with beautiful prints. Only one problem: they’re the French editions. I can’t read a single one. I feel like a diabetic Willy Wonka; I can look, I can touch, I can share, but I can’t enjoy them myself. It’s a book-lover’s torture. And yet, no one here seems to share my appreciation of a good classic novel. In fact, the idea of reading for pleasure is all but unheard of. The name “Harry Potter” means nothing here. I pull a copy of “Amelie” from the shelf, recognizing the title from the film version. A wistful-looking waitress stares from the cover, carrying a tray of café au lait and brioche. I look wistfully back at her. I’ll never know which was better: the movie or the book.
Books
About Allie Wallace
Hailing from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, Allie is no stranger to the road less traveled. She spent her senior year of high school interning at a local fabric store. She enjoys painting, fashion design and sewing, singing, writing, and picking raspberries until her fingers turn purple. Allie is passionate about women's rights and empowerment and aspires to become a social entrepreneur.