Foxing

In grade school I had a friend named Sam. He's the kind of person I would tell about this blog. He'd know exactly what I'm trying to do here, but he would also never take the time to read it. Which is why it's safe to write about Sam.

Sam and I both loved books, but he loved them more. Sam used books as a tool for grief, and began an affair with words that had lasting power. In my life, I've shared dozens of books with Sam; Sam has only ever shared two books with me. A lopsided arrangement, but mutually agreed upon. 

You see, I like to take books everywhere I go. I carry them with me, set them down anywhere within reach, use them for coasters, bend spines, dog-ear pages, and even write notes in margins on occasion. For me, a book is a friend that comes with, getting into all sorts of trouble at my side. 

Sam had a different approach. Sam would leave the book in it's cover. He'd carry the book in a bag, set the book down on a high surface far away from danger. When he read, Sam peered into a narrow cavern between barely open pages to discern the words. He was like a paleontologist, attempting not to disturb the stories even while unearthing them. 

You can see why neither Sam nor I liked it when I borrowed his books.  

I'm still the same way: I love a well-worn book. I love when the spine is creased, when pages are marked, when someone else underlined a sentence or wrote a little note. I love old books, yellow with age, that smell of rot and mildew. I love when you can touch a book's imperfections, when even a rough calloused finger could trace scars on the cover. I love when books are held together by tape, or glue, or not even held together at all. 

I love that despite evidence of dozens of hands, if not hundreds--thousands even--still that book opens for me. What a magical experience. 

I learned the other day (from a book, no less!) that there's a name for a book's process of aging: they call it "foxing." A beautiful term for a beautiful evolution. How fantastic it is to discover that there's a word for something you cherish. 

I've begun to fox as well. Thinning hair, rounding edges, slowing movements. It's a slight process, but it's happening. Despite this, I think my stories are aging well. Beneath a foxing cover is words, poetry--life. 

Over time, I've begun to resemble my most beloved books. And I'm ok with that.