The little bell that jingles when I walk through the door always makes me feel invited, and even though I don’t like cats I tolerate Emerson’s affectionate nuzzle against my leg.
“Maybe I’ll revisit Emerson today, Ralph Waldo that is, or maybe Thoreau, or Steinbeck, or some other classic literature giant,” I thought as I ran my fingers over the stacks of cracked spines.
No matter how often I read them, I will not tire of the eloquence in East of Eden, Walden Pond, Self-Reliance.
You see, they make me feel more my age; these persuasive men, these yellowed pages.
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