I love old books: the yellowing pages, rough-edged where they have had to be torn open by the book's first reader, the old-fashioned letter-pressed fonts, the sense that someone else's hands have held them.
This is something I'm currently reading, a book called Three, Six, Nine by the French early-20th-century writer Colette, one of my favourite authors.
Written in 1941-2, it is about all the different places she has lived. I love the way her memories of places lead us to her emotions at the time, as she describes her nomadic existence within the city of Paris, moving from apartment to apartment in the wake of failed love affairs.
Here is a little counterpart to these reflections: a song sung by Françoise Hardy in 1966 about a beloved childhood home in the country that has now vanished, overtaken by the city's bricks and concrete.
Isn't she beautiful? I might have to write a post about Françoise Hardy sometime!