There is something very personal, very embraceable, about chapbooks, where reams of reveries are compressed to a few sheets on which only the very best will do, or where threads of thoughts are compartmentalized according to theme. Chapbooks are priceless keepsakes, the results of languishing, labored, hand-wringing selection – their completion, a true labor of love – and a gift to the hands that hold them to cherish each and every line, whether scribed to the page in calligraphy or printed in Poor Richard font. To read a chapbook is to read a segment of a writer’s heart, to resonate with a facet of the collective unconscious, and to connect more profoundly with one’s own soul: the complex made simple; immensity, diminutized to delicate design, within the reader’s grasp of understanding and embracing.
(Chapbook Beginnings by Aubree Anna Spence, 2006. She was merely fourteen when she made these by hand and sold them at a local arts and crafts event.)