I love second hand bookshops. The smell of old books is probably up there with the glug of wine into a glass in terms of instead relaxation and visceral anticip

I love second hand bookshops. The smell of old books is probably up there with the glug of wine into a glass in terms of instead relaxation and visceral anticipation (I don't really drink anymore but I've not kicked the book habit). I managed to build a decent sci-fi collection almost purely from charity shops. It was fascinating to me to map out the relative fortunes of charities just by their second hand book prices. Cancer charities always seemed quite flush, the shops well kept, the books priced in whole pounds. Charities for elderly people usually had the best prices (and for me the best selection), perhaps because much of the stock was bequeathed in bulk. I'd be sure to overpay for my bag of 20 novels for less than a fiver, it always felt like a steal. My favourite finds are old chess books, especially old books about chess programming. One of my favourite ways to learn a subject is following its history, from primitive approaches through successively more complex and effective ideas. It's always been infinitely comforting to me that even these cheap, dilapidated stacks of paper each contained whole worlds, days of entertainment for pennies. I got the same feeling about computers from a young age, the fractal quality of always being able to dive deeper, never hitting walls. In some ways I feel sad that these days I get caught up on authors not publishing the next book in a series (some for many years) or having to wait for the next series of something I've just binged on Netflix, or even being forced to wait for the next episode of something. Second hand bookshops remind me of a different (and perhaps more sustainable) pace of life.