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Michael Thornton

Michael's unique and very amusing approach to our essay contest won the admiration of everyone on our staff. Combining a somewhat mysterious subplot with an eloquent and touching explanation of how books have touched his life made him the perfect recipient of our award.

CAREER GOAL: Teacher/Archaeologist
EDUCATIONAL PLANS: UBC
STUDENT PROFILE: A Honours, Leadership, Youth4Youth Club, Concert & Jazz Band, Essay Contest Award Winner.

The Book Man Cometh

I push through the cloudy murk of the rain-soaked parking lot, navigating step by step the puddles that dot the ground in front of me. It’s early Sunday morning, and I gaze my tired eyes towards the bright light that leads me to my destination. I steer myself in the direction of the shining glass doors, moving forward to shove them aside.

Immediately greeting me as I step inside is the wathered smell of old books, books piled, sorted, and stretching endlessly across the promenade of The Chilliwack Mall. I stroll down the boxes of The Rotary Book Fair, pausing to flip through the covers between my fingers. Title flash before my eyes, works etched in my memory, books integral to my childhood and of growing up. I make my way to the nostalgia-covered pages of the children’s section, stopping to look at the distantly familiar writings at my fingertips. I pick up a copy of The Magical Faraway Tree by Enid Blyton, the sight of which brings back so many memories, memories of my mother reading to me the fantastical tales of strange and wonderful characters and places above the tree that had captivated me as a child. Above all, reminding me of the boundless imagination and wonderment I possessed as a child, when all the world seemed to be one big mystery, and everything was new. My sweet reminiscence fades and I put down the book and move on, sensing someone coming up behind me. I set off once again, refusing to dally. Even though I’m in one of my favourite places, I can’t relax, as I know that my competitor for the perfect book won’t be far behind.

After a short while of walking, I find myself in the historical fiction section of the book far. Suddenly I’m surrounded by stories, yarns of captains and seafarers of long ago, of bounties and privateers, and of deep, dark, far and forgotten places. I now have in my hands a copy of Master and Commander , the first in the series of Aubrey-Maturin novels that had held me in their grip all those summers ago. The world of the 19 th century sailor was described in such detail and completeness that I soon became fascinated and obsessed in the age of sail, going so far to spend my woodworking classes putting together a model of the HMS Victory. Sadly, its maiden voyage in the Fraser River was destined to be its last. I take my mind off those bittersweet memories and press on. Behind me, I notice a flurry of activity, a man scours box by box like a literature devouring machine, tossing each piece into one of his many shopping carts. Noticing I’ve got some stiff competition, I quicken my pace in the pursuit of the perfect book.

Struggling to keep ahead of the force of nature behind me, I settle to pick out some classic fiction. None other than George Orwell’s 1984 manages to catch my eye. This book was, to me, a representation of how I had changed over the years, from the innocent wonder of the books I read as a child to my increasingly knowledgeable (if not a little more cynical) understanding of how the world works today. The danger and brutality of the book’s story and the important message it held had a lasting impression on me, and cemented my changing outlook on life. I put this personally important novel back and, seeing something, plot my course for the non-fiction section. I look over my shoulder, coming my way is the man pushing a full shopping cart of books, with what seems to be an assistant in tow with another cart brimming with piles up piles of hard and paperbacks. I scurry off, desperate to find what I’m looking for before its taken.

I plunge into the history section, rapidly scanning each cover for something that will grab my attention. Suddenly, I find it, The History of the Ancient World by Chester G. Starr. Wishing to fill my seeming insatiable thirst for history I pick it up and place it under my arm. As I move onto see what other finds await me, I feel the pressure lifted off of me, a book now securely in my hands. I imagine now coming home and sitting down on the couch with my book and a cup of tea, spending the rest of the Sunday in book-lover’s bliss. I take the rest of the hour filling my bag with numerous other used gems, finishing my trip and heading off to the checkout. I pay the lady at the desk and part a glancing smile at The Book Man, pushing his cartload, a mountain of books destined for the shelves of the used bookstore. Turning the cover I see the list of names, all those who had read and experienced this book before me. Flipping through the stained and worn pages a strange feeling comes over me, as I begin to comprehend that I am just a piece of a puzzle, a segment in a long chain of those who have enjoyed the book and of those who will enjoy it in the years to come.

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