In 2018, I got the abridged version of Virginia Woolf’s diary in hardcover by luck and loved everything about it. I read that book on the bus, coffee shops, someone else’s backyard, and in my tiny basement (yet favourite) bedroom. I became more consistent with journaling, largely thanks to Woolf's writing.
When moving out of that place, I packed my books in a suitcase, and half of my books were sent back to Vietnam as I was visiting family that summer. I haven't found the book since, and I still wonder if it's still at my mom's or got lost in transit. I found a U.S version of Woolf’s abridged diary in paperback this month in another bookshop miles away from the last one. Neatly tucked away inside the pages are a laminated bookmark (‘Hand painted in Dorset by June Kendall’), and a newspaper clipping (an article in The Times Literary Supplement on the selected letters of Woolf’s sister, Vanessa Bell). The person who placed them there is clearly aware of their connection to Woolf, as both are tied to her in distinct ways.
The surprises found in old books are always pure joy. I often marvel at how well these small, forgotten things were kept and how, fortunate as I am, they happened to land in my palms.