Wednesday, August 25, 2004

So you find a book a novel, a biography, an autobiography which at long last has perfection. Love, loss, death, life. Perdition, salvation, redemption. It grips you from the off. It gets you in the guts, infects your soul, makes you want to stop people in the street point to the cover and say "Hey have you read this?. Well if not you should". You are full of an evangelical zeal.

You go into work and hide in the bathroom and read for half an hour. You call in sick and spend the morning sitting at the kitchen table forgetting to eat breakfast, mesmerised. You can recite whole paragraphs by heart and you're still only half way through. You read too fast carried by the sheer wonder of the writer. You miss half of what the writer says but the half of what you do get more than makes up for that.

If its the weekend you hope no one phones wanting to meet for a drink.

You skip on speeding to the last chapter, the last page, the last paragraph and close the book. You, smile, laugh and shake your head. You turn the book over, open the cover, go to the first page and begin again.

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