My love for books probably started in the womb. My mother’s collection of murder mysteries filled her bookcase that went across her entire bedroom wall and from floor to ceiling. She’d take us along with her to the library when we were little, plopping us in the childrens’ section while she looked for something that suited her tastes. The smell of old books competed with the smell of gasoline as my favorite childhood smell. What can I say? I’m weird.
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I thought I was the only one who liked the smell of gasoline when I was little.