Today I was at the book store looking at the Classics. My eyes wandered over tomes such as “The Iliad,” “The Odyssey” and “The Histories.” Among the epics was a small pink book. The pink caught my eye first since the Classics were bound in navy, burgundy and gray. Then the title required me to pull it out and investigate - “Dirty Pretty Things” was beautifully scripted on the narrow spine.
The cover was light pink and felt like ultra suede. Soft and supple and smooth and I could wrap myself up in that material and take a nap on the beach - I have a thing for paper. The cover art was an interesting water color (my preferred medium) of a girl. She is sad.
I looked around to see if anyone had noticed what I had picked up. No one had. Why would they?
I opened and flipped through. Very short bursts of text centered and sometimes asymmetrical on one side of clean white pages. Poems. Statements. Questions. What is this?
I turn to the Introduction and as I read my face got hot, I felt butterflies in my stomach and I found it hard to breathe. This book is nothing more than the author penning his thoughts and memories about a past lover. When he explains the couple’s affinity for “The Little Prince” I thought “he is me” and I closed the book.
I looked hard at the book shelf. Why was this book here in this section among these big, old, monster-laden journeys? Perhaps because it’s his tragedy?
So many little things about this book spoke to me I felt it through my body. I knew I was supposed to find it and that nothing but a serendipitous chain of events got the book in front of me. And I was glad they had.
I’m not a book reader anymore so to find a book that literally compels me to take it home is a treat. The little pink book has already inspired and excited me. Thanks, serendipity.