Holding a new book in your hands is like the giddy rush of talking to your very first crush for the first time. Old books are like meeting that same crush again in your twenties or thirties and discovering you still have chemistry.
Old books have been cherished before, and thoughtlessly abused. Their bindings are a bit loose and some of the pages might be missing. The pages occasionally have scribbled notes on them, or dog-eared corners. Old books have been around; they’ve seen shit. They know places you’ve never been and not all of those were pleasant. Their pages tend to smell funky, like morning breath or somebody else’s stale laundry.
Each has their value. There’s few literary pleasures as keen as a new book while paging through an old book is a precious comfort.