The truth seems to be, … that when he casts his leaves forth upon the wind, the author addresses, not the many who will fling aside his volume, or never take it up, but the few who will understand him better than most of his schoolmates or life-mates.
Nataniel Hawthorne in The Scarlet Letter
Blogging, for me, is like being granted immigrant status in a parallel universe but my permit, grudgingly granted, clearly stipulates temporary residence only. Xenophobia, I tell ya.
I’m not sure how lucid this post will be. I may wake up tomorrow morning, and while groggily sipping my morning dose of green tea, cringe at this drivel and dutifully reach for an elusive undo button… For now however, morning is a distant dream.
I had vowed, well not vowed exactly, but solemnly and earnestly promised the trees of this fair land that I would curb my book buying ways. I had to! My shelves, already groaning under the weight of my indulgence, had just last week tacitly informed me that they could not admit another book. Not even a second-hand poetry volume. Now for those with the luxury of a house of their own, some swanky, sturdy new shelves are the quick fix here, but hélas, for me, subordinate of my parent’s home, I must make do. I am an ardent follower of whoever it was that said, ‘When we are collecting books we are collecting happiness’. (Note to self, do reference this) I have lived these past years trying to emulate the New York author and bibliophile (he had books in his kitchen cupboards, his stair case, the floor… you get the picture…) who, when told by his mate of similar habits, that people, when seeing his books, ask if he had indeed read all of them, replied, ‘You obviously don’t have enough books’. Now I had been able to stay faithful to my promise to the trees through the lack of proximity to the Exclusive Books sale. Tonight however, I have broken my promise and the trees, I fear, will turn away from me hence. I thought I would just take a peek at the sale tables, and congratulate myself on my self-discipline. It was of course, not to be. Stacks upon stacks called out to me, begging for a home away from the din of the Greek music gratuitously forced upon them by the neighboring Papa’s restaurant. My wallet, the major victim in the state of gainful unemployment, could not support them all. So, I’ve brought home just one, a bargain at twenty odd rands, paid in coins, Roget’s Thesaurus. Pleased to announce the acquisition of a Roget’s.