Paperbacks were once ubiquitous.  On bedside tables; stuffed into airplane seat pockets; in book bags; packed atop folded clothing in suitcases; on beach blankets and in the case of Judy Blume's Wifey, conspicuously displayed by a 12-year old poolside in an attempt to look more sophisticated. The cover art of Mario Puzo's best seller is seared in my brain. First as a dark novel I knew wasn't meant for children, then as the inspiration of Francis Ford Copppola's film, which has flowed like a river throughout my entire adult life.

Paperbacks were miniaturized worlds you could carry in the palm of your hand.  They lived on revolving racks in the library, bookstore or at airports — a low-stakes commitment to a deeper exploration of the world or a cheap form of escape from it. 

After watching Paramount's fictionalized miniseries of the making of the Godfather film, The Offer, I wanted to return to the source material, making sure to buy a classic copy with the iconic cover design. Reading real books feels retrograde now. Like going for a hike. Or bathing in a river. If I'm honest on some days I find it a little hard to sustain my ability to read a real book. The news feed on my phone calls out to me with urgency. Instagram's distractions are a lure. YouTube makes constant promises of easy fast entertainment. If I'm a little stressed or tired, I have the attention span of a kitten chasing a laser beam. But this day (that one in the photo) at that hour, I was perfectly folded into the moment of outdoor quiet with a good book, the faint smell of ink wafting up. And I was all ages. Every age. And it was every time under the sun. That's the appeal of activities not tied to technology. And of nostalgia or memory. That you aren't constrained by the hard boundaries of space and time. That you can have the illusion of being anywhere and at any point of your history or the history of the world.