The Shadow of the Wind

This is the book by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. Exotic name. Didn't realise it till I typed it out just now.
There it was, just one of the books lying, rather standing upright, on a bookshelf at some bookmall (how impersonal! stuff for another post). Wonder what made me reach out to this particular thin something when there were so many brighter, flashier, jucier ones around? Could hardly see the cover! The spine didn't tell much, though so important in a book and a man.
Was it the word Shadow? Perhaps it was, as round about that time I had curiously developed this attraction to the word. Language, font, audio, video, synonyms no bar. Something mystical about it. Haa khel saavalyancha played so often on the pod.
More than all of this was the underlying truth of INSTINCT. That is what had made me reach out to this book. That is what had made me pick the others. Yes, there have been more that have come into my life in this manner. Bringing with them a person who had gathered all those familiar words, put them together; all held as one creation by that very spine which introduced itself to me.
Touchwood. All these experiences have been and still are enthralling. Chance and instinct bringing the to-be-favourite writer into my hands!
Strange then, or maybe not, that this book should be about a book-guardian who chooses the book he is to guard in the same manner. By Instinct.