Visitors to our house are invariably astounded at the plethora of books that surround them - and probably make snap judgements about us, or the “kind of person” we are by the presence of so much literature.
I have a guilty secret.
Since ceasing the daily commute into and out of London, I have hardly picked up a single book. The four hours sat on trains each day was my time. In the course of the two year London odyssey, I hit a lot of the books on my “would like to read one day” list.
I discovered that Anna Karenina really is one of the best books ever written - certainly the best I have read thus far. It started as a chore - an act of blind faith because “everybody says this is good”. It required effort to escape the first hundred or so pages, before sweeping you into the world of Anna, Count Vronsky, and Levin.
“The Order of Things” by Foucault mystified me for days. Iperseveredthrough the philosophical navel gazing, and came away with something. I’m not quite sure what that something was, but it seemed worth it.
Terry Pratchett delivered light relief during the darkest times, and Cory Doctorow fired my imagination.
Since settling into the rhythm of a career closer to home, the internet has taken the place of the books I once read. Many and varied blogs vie for my attention. When the mood takes me, I sit into the early hours reading the shared story of far flung friends; some of which I now know, but the majority I shall never meet.
Stories. So many stories, and so little time.