In Which I Read Faust

My grandmother handed me a book last Sunday.

She said, “I thought you might like it, because it’s a nice old book. It’s just been sitting on the shelf.”

I said, “Thank you! It’s beautiful!”
Inside, I said, “Eeeeeeeeeeee!”

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The binding! The paper! The type! The inscription! The pictures!
The words! The text itself is delightful, but the introduction is fantastic.

Johann Wolfgang Goethe was born in Frankfurt on the Main on the 28th of August, 1749.  His birth was unattended with any undue incident, being distinctly contrary to the prophecies peculiar to those people who are distressed at not finding genius growing out of vagrant places.

Would that all our births be so.

The mother, however, is said to have possessed all those qualities which we conceive to be necessary to the mother of a poet…

I am happy to report my mother can claim the same.

It was copyrighted in 1894, printed in 1900, and given “To my ‘sweet Marie’ Christmas, 1904.”

The small grease mark on page 74 was added via potato chip, September 16, 2013.

I know. I’m the worst person ever.

Genius Mommy suggested sticking the page in some flour.
Never one to doubt my mama, I obliged.

And it worked! It’s very only slightly stained now.

…We won’t tell anyone about the mustard.

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