This pile of books beside my bed has gradually become a tower of literary guilt.
The act of entering a book shop or charity store without purchasing yet another book is one I've yet to successfully master. A vestigial symptom of my obsessive compulsive disorder perhaps, an unerring urge to be cultured and well-read, or is it just greed? Either way, the problem is they never get read. Or rather, they get read at such a pace that another 20 have been bought by the time I finish a chapter of just one. To read them all before old age it seems would be an impossibly epic assignment to complete.... Read More