The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 6

by Beth Brower

I do defend the philosophy that someone can fit rather snugly on an Enemies List without it sneaking over into unadulterated hatred. As a less than average Christian, I do my best to keep my feelings in the realm of extravagant dislike with a hefty dose of disdain.

A house without books is a house without a soul.’

I can hear Mother telling me, “Sort out one’s duty first thing, Emma. Then you may seek out your diversions.” I can hear Father grunting in the corner with his repeated response, “Only if she’s wise enough to know which is which.” “Oh, Declan. You are content to raise a wild animal.” “Animal, no,” he replied one afternoon, glancing up at me with a wink. “But wild, always. My girl, I wouldn’t have you be any other way.”

Oh, how words love Hawkes. They wrap around the unexpected inflections of his voice, eager, offering their best cadence and lilt and soul. They know him well, and he them. Almost as if words are the one thing in his life he has never had to push away. He speaks words the way they pound in my chest. And it feels like a miracle, finding such a dear part of oneself walking around in someone else’s body.

I’m just beginning and want to inspect my initial thoughts before we speak of it.

We all cast shadows from our past, only how difficult a thing it is to let others see them.

The idea that one could live in a world where a friend would invite you to go read in another’s library feels more dream than reality. It bodes well for my life’s prospects.

“How is being an adult treating you today, Lion? Have you been managing to act like one?” “I’ve fashioned a few mature qualities that I carry about, yes. Unfortunately, I’ve left them home this afternoon so as to come down to your level. Snobbery loves company.” “No bickering,” Hawkes said, turning a page. “This is a reading tea.”

“Argus Fard?” “He is a man of bloviated pomposity.” Mary cringed. “I feel you’ve just committed violent crime against the English language.”

“Mary,” I said reverently, “you have much to teach me.” “I exceed even my own expectations.”

Monday has returned. How dreadful.

There is no feeling quite like finishing a book that you’ve loved.