I still remember my first. It surprised me, caught me off guard, made away with my tears and laughter. I flipped through its pages one after another, quickly and quietly as I hid away in the corner of my room. At night I dared not sleep without reaching The End. My parents quietly tucked me away, turned out the lights and said their goodnights. Then I shimmied from my sheets to scavenge for a flashlight and illuminate the last few lines.

It was magic. The characters were magicians; the plot twists were tricks. It all unfolded in the pages, my stage. When the last words punctured my heart, I slid down the bed to rest my head on the pillow. Then I cried.

My second book was much the same. More hiding, more late nights by flashlight, and when I was done, more tears. When I dried my eyes, I made a pledge:

Never, will I ever, own a dog.

All dogs die. They’re attacked by wild animals or the gloom of rabies, and they die. Growing up without a dog seemed like the better plan.

I may have read other books before those first two. I’m sure I read pop-up books, or those books that start with A is for Apple, but I distinctly remember reading Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows and believing all dogs go to heaven, literally…usually earlier than their owners would like.

I fell in love with stories at an early age.

The love affair has carried me through a lot of pages — big books and small books, thin books and thick books. There was fiction and non-fiction, classic and clichéd, violent delights with violent ends. There were short stories and long sagas, scary books by Stephen King and a few not-so-scary books by Stephen King.

Lately I’ve become a fan of biographies. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I’ve grown up and as a kid grows out of magic I’ve grown out of fiction. Perhaps I know in biographies, the magic is real.

No, that can’t be. I vividly remember reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, and although Macondo was fiction, the magic in the town was all too real.

I fell in love with shopping for books at a later age. I used to frequent Barnes and Noble and Borders, but I’ve never been vain in my shopping taste. I don’t mind visiting second-hand stores; I quite like the wet dog smell of an old, used book.

The thing I’ve discovered about bookstores is that they’re a bit like zoos. They are all the same, but I’d like to see them all.

There is one bookstore I wish I could see again. It’s an elderly veteran on the Sunset Strip and although I’ve only been there once, I know it’s my favorite.

I heard rumors that it was good, that it warmed you like the pressed lips of a first kiss, and when I finally stepped inside I knew the rumors were true. The floor was old, wooden and sore from many years of use. I could hear the voices of Oliver, Joad and Gatsby as I walked along, my nose pointed upward, eyes affixed to the stories above.

The polished-oak bookcases were high and lined in no particular order. The books stuffed in the cases took on the look of a row of dominoes right before its creator adds the finishing touch with the flick of a finger.

I don’t know if it was heaven, but I hope it was close.

I spent nearly two hours in this store and would have loved to make it three, but alas…the East called. The sun was pressed against the Pacific and I still had a long ways to drive. There were too many pages to flip through, too many stories to peruse.

Maybe that’s what I love about books. No matter how I feel, or what I want, there is always a book. Stories bring light while sitting alone in the dark after your love says goodbye for good. They introduce hope and grace and salvation of man. They stir passions and love and prove magic to be real. There really is a story for every moment, a tale for every mood.

And on and on it goes, with no end in sight. The amour of my being, in darkness or light.