On my last thrift store excursion, I found a book by Charles Dickens, and it looked pretty old. It was old enough to not have a publication date (that I could find, anyways), although I was eventually able to track down a rough estimate of 1935ish, or about 90 years old.

I’m a big fan of old books. Out of all the vintage things I enjoy collecting, books are top tier. As I turn those yellowed pages, I can’t help but wonder about the readers who came before, who turned those pages and read those words. How different did they see this fictional world compared to me?

As the last remnants of the old ways of living pass from our reach, I think it’s important to look back at what they enjoyed, what they cared about. We can’t go back in time, but if we listen close, we can hear the echoes.

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