A year ago in the briefest of lines, I began keeping a list of the books I’ve digested… burp.

What remains, here, are some that for various reasons had a profound effect on me at the time and when I think of them, I remember, ‘oh, yes…’ where I was, the pages, words, some lines, as if rather than I reading the book, some of me was unravelled and is left there, strung and tangled around letters and bindings.

What is sad I think, is I haven’t read more, and more widely, and that so many words which have moved me come from books I have yet to read, snippets and a few caught paragraphs. Oh I need someone to indulge me my addiction.

…

Well perhaps satisfied the last need a little… but… At very least I need to join the library around the corner (and a bit) which has a vast quantity of the kind of books I like in English. Still, I prefer to own, so I can sprinkle crumbs, smear peanut butter, and dribble coffee on the pages with impunity.