The shortest inspiration

This was inspired by my English teacher while he was hunched over our current reading of "Coming Through Slaughter". Just that split second really inspired me, so I began to write this almost immediately. Tell me what you think.
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He was once handsome in his youth. A full set of mouse brown hair, deep dark set eyes above a wide smirk of a mouth. Hairs on his face often cut skillfully with a straight razor, smelling of peppermint aftershave every morning and indulging in the pleasures of wine, women, and-- of course-- great literature.

But he sat instead at the dingy table laden with dirty silverware and this morning's porridge. The dark room had only one light, a lamp light in fact, that illuminated his stark face. It bent over the yellowed pages in his hands, which steadied against the table, weak and wrinkled. His beard had began to grow long again and was beginning to turn a tinge of gray; his hair balded at the top still clung to the hair color. He found his back was beginning to fail him, so he sat hunched like a fairytale witch. His cheeks sagged, and his beady eyes looked coldly, but intrigued, at the black print before him. His sight transfixed.

And that was what became his love. Despite all the women he floundered with day and night many years ago, downing bottles of red wine and vodka, the liquor he loved best was the letters his eyes drunk in every night. His lust for literature grew to an undying passion and fire and, eventually, she became his wife.

Behind him in the shadowed room, one could barely make out bookshelves beside a frame of a doorway. Beyond that doorway, if one were to walk in, they would be in a library...or rather his bedroom. The bed was minuscule compared to the towering oak shelves; A pile of one he was to read again lay on the left side and another pile, full of books that were so worn, the pages were beginning to slide away from the binding. These were his favorites. He once fancied to become a book binder.

And so he sat, as usual under his lamp light, his body failing. With difficulty, he looked over the letters, not sure whether or not the word was 'severe' or 'sever' or perhaps even 'severer'. It had been nights like this, where his love, his wife, was defeated him. Night after night, he stared in vain and sometimes he mouthed the words like a schoolboy.

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Not done yet, I'm going to write the rest after I get home from school. ^^