I was browsing through old books in one of my favorite bookstores that carries books in many languages. I have often found really rare books there. This time a book written in French caught my eye. I picked it up, flipped through it briefly, found it interesting, checked the price (less than a cup of coffee), and bought it. I don't speak French at an excellent level, but I can read and understand it well enough. In addition, reading in French helps me to improve my French language skills.
Upon arriving home, I placed the book on the bookshelf where it remained. I hadn't managed to make time to read it. Yesterday evening, I happened to grab it and began to read. I saw inside the book where the title is typically found, and there was a dedication from someone named François to his loved one. I didn't see this dedication when I purchased the book.
Here's what he had written:
"Paris, February 14, 2002. To my Beloved. Because every moment between us is magical and we must make the most of it! And because I love you... ... more than you can imagine! François"
All the symbols of romance were there: February 14th (Valentine's Day), and the heart was drawn not in black ink but in red! The word "Beloved" is written with a capital B. We're at the beginning of the 21st century (2002), but nothing has changed since the time of the Romantics. Neither the gesture nor the words.
Gifts of love are a joy. As much a pleasure as making love itself. What to choose? Will she like it? Will she understand the symbolism? Will she be pleased? Will she love me more after receiving this gift?
Ideally, it should be an object that she keeps with her as much as possible. Something she touches often (because that's how she touches me). Because then I'm more present in her life.
The ideal gift is something I've made with my own hands (a carving, an embroidery, a drawing, a writing...), and if that's not possible, at least a dedication on a page of a book, written in my own hand. By leaving my writing there, I am in your hands. You carry me with you, and from time to time you hear me by reading what I've written. I'm close to you; you can feel my breath between the lines and the punctuation marks (the quotation marks, the exclamation marks, but especially the ellipsis!) Each word is thought out, and weighed, imagining the effect it will have on the other person. Before being neatly written, the words are written and rewritten on scraps of paper.
Up to this point, everything was very beautiful, and very romantic, but at this moment a question came to my mind:
Why did this book end up in the bookstore in my town and then in my hands?
How did it get from faraway Paris to my country?
What could have happened to this love story?