So, here’s the thing. In my last rambling, I took a very cheap shot at A.A. Milne’s When We Were Very Young. I joked it was about as collectible as a used coloring book. And while that line still makes me chuckle a bit (I try to avoid laughing at my own jokes) — I’ve had a change of heart.
Because the more I sat with that book, the more I realized: it is something. I could find maybe six or seven copies online — total. Before the internet (does anyone remember AB Bookman’s Weekly?!), tracking down this book would’ve been really difficult. And when you actually read it — when you feel the illustrated cloth boards, take a good look at Ernest Shepard’s illustrations, or how about that Christopher Robin frontispiece?! — it is special.
Nope, it’s not a first. And it’s certainly not pristine. But so what? It’s nearly a hundred years old, and it’s survived wars, floods, a child’s careless hands, and who knows how many house moves. Maybe it’s not “collectible” in the formal sense. But it’s charming. It’s vintage. And it still matters.
I think that’s the part I forgot when I penned that blog: sometimes a book’s value isn’t in scarcity, but in how it feels in your hands.
And this one? It may not be rare by some definitions — but unlike a scroll or a screen or a swipe or a JPEG, it’s got weight, texture, that wonderful, slight scent of a used book…and a whole lotta Soul.
