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According to the family legend I started read as 4 years old. Can’t confirm nor can I deny that. I myself remember “Rikki-Tikky-Tavi” of Kipling as my first book, in Russian of course (had to check its spelling in Wiki). I know what it’s about, approksimately, but have never re-read it since then.
But I read.
For the most I lend books at a library. But I also buy books. Aeroflot allowed 20 kg baggage per person (and 5 kg hand baggage). When we were moving to Sweden, we had 13 kg overweight. Books. (I had to hand out a lot of things when packing and choosing what I would take with me, books as well…)
I still read.
There are books that you have to read. Of one or another reason.
There are books you are just happened to read. Again of one or another reason.
And there are books you were lucky to read. And this thread is about these books.
There are books that you started to read without knowing anything about the writer or the subject. And very soon you’ve got the feeling that you are very lucky that in all this endless ocean of rubbish trying to pass as books, you’ve got this. And when it ends you feel emptiness because the book had ended. Your feel rich. You feel drained. You want to keep this book for yourself. You want to share it. You’ve got thoughts from it. And about it. You’ve got arguments. You’ve got words of approval. Or condemnation. You’d like to talk to it. That’s it, to the book, not to its author. You’d like to discuss it with peers. You want hug it. You want to throw it away. It irritates you. Your feel relief because the book has ended and you can do something else. You want this intensity. You want this passion. You want this book on your shelf. You want this book in your hands. You can’t leave it. Just can’t.
“So here goes. Big Guy, Big Entity, Big Being, if you’re up there listening, I suppose you will think what you like. But please forgive me. I need it tonight. I did what I wanted and now I am sorry as hell. We both know the truth: I have sinned, big-time. Tomorrow I’ll have my stuff back. I’ll be bitter and ready to stick it to everyone else. I’ll be the apostate, agnostic, you won’t cross my mind. But like me tonight, accept me one moment before I reject you, as I reject everyone else. If you can forgive infinitely, then forgive this, and have an instant of pity for your ragtag creation, sad Bess Malloy’s boy.”
Scott Turow “Pleading guilty”. I’ve lent it at a library, but I’d like to have my copy on the shelf. I’m in love with it.
“I am sorry as hell” but if you’ve got a book to share, please do.