On books and other things

5 09 2009

I’m reading Disgrace, Nobel prize 2003. Well written, very nice yet still harsh. There’s something behing his writing that’s crude but simple.

I sometimes write. I hugged myself so many times with the thought I might write a book… even if I never really had any idea on what.
It was just a dull flame of hope, a last action to leave a mark. It was just pride.

Now I stand here, on the tube, reading a book I like and thinking how much I like books, how much I would like to be able to buy them, a lot of them. But in London I never found a home and I never built a nest. So what the future will bring for me, is an exquisite mistery.

Every day my tasks remind me of what I am. And I find comfort in them, for they teach me my place. Every day I see a bit more of myself. It’s like a small book. Something I want to read. Something I want to write.

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