It had been startling and disappointing to me to find out that story books had been written by people, that books were not natural wonders, coming up of themselves like grass. Yet regardless of where they come from, I cannot remember a time when I was not in love with them -- with the books themselves, cover and binding and the paper they were printed on, with their smell and their weight and with their possession in my arms, captured and carried off to myself. Still illiterate, I was ready for them, committed to all the reading I could give them ...
Eudora Welty expresses a sense of disillusionment upon realizing that storybooks are products of human creativity rather than natural phenomena. This revelation surprised her, as she had always assumed books existed on their own, much like grass growing from the earth. Despite this disappointment, her affection for books remains unwavering, highlighting her deep emotional connection to them. She fondly recalls her love for their physical attributes—the cover, binding, and paper—demonstrating a...
