‘Forty Dollars for a book is too expensive!’

I kept telling myself ‘Nah, forty dollars for a book is too expensive’. 

I find myself visiting Unity Books over on High St again and again mainly for one particular book as of lately. It’s so peaceful when I walk in there, a shelter from the bustling streets, annoyed commuters, people grabbing a bite to eat and loud music bursting out from clothing stores. It’s the only bookshop on the street I think. As if to say, life is more than just food and clothing.

Anyways, this book of controversy (for me that is) is actually a series of diary entries written by the late (and great, many would add) actor Alan Rickman. Of course I came across him on Harry Potter and I do admit to not having seen any other films or plays that he has appeared in. But I have watched a few of his interviews and really liked his sonorous voice. That is about as much as I know about the actor. That he has a nice voice and he played my favourite character in the Harry Potter series.

One day, as I sauntered around the bookstore, slowly and leisurely at heart and in body, I stumbled across his book over in the media and celebrity section, a section I normally wouldn’t wander about too much. I picked it up and read  one of his diary entries from the 1990s. Then another one, and another one, and another.. 

‘Wow it’s like I’m having a peak into his personal life, according to himself!’ I thought ‘How cool’ and how deeply intimate and personal it is. So I read on for a bit more. In the diary, he had a style of writing that makes one realise the magic in the ordinary living, how beautiful the seemingly mundane can be. A few days later, I went back, and straight away strode over to his book. And a few days later again, and again this evening.

Earlier in the day when I was sitting at the desk studying, I got excited at the prospect of maybe buying the book today. When I got to the bookshop in the evening, and as I held the book in my hand, I kept telling myself ’Nah, forty dollars for a book is too expensive!’. At least, that’s what I like to have thought.  But soon, (maybe the relaxing music and warm orange lighting encouraged me), I came clean to myself,  becoming vaguely aware of a deeper reason as to why I was reluctant to buy the book and bring it home to read. ‘What if the joy of reading his book doesn’t last? What if it disappears as soon as I have the whole book at my disposal?, what if its joys only lie in the short snippets I get to read when I have some time to amble over to the bookshop?’. After all, I have happily spent forty dollars on a dessert in the past I’m sure. It was this other reason that was true to my heart. Some sort of a fear.

Am I scared of having things in case they hurt me? Do I prefer to always leave some distance so I can recoil back to myself when things get too painful? Have I always enjoyed the state of desiring more than its fulfilment because I dread the return to normal and the boredom that follows? Ah, I don’t know, I could go on about this perpetually.

So the verdict tonight is, no I haven’t bought the book yet. I want to enjoy it a little more in small pieces. And then, when I can no longer resist or when I have ample time to read it, I might buy it. For now, I decided I am very content to keep coming back for a little more each time. It’s the way I like it. Or so I say…