Like most people I know I find that towards the end of the month my bank account miraculously replenishes itself. Whether or not this is directly related to the largely abstract tasks I carry out between the hours of nine to five from Monday to Friday has yet to be seen. All I know is that I’ve run out of shelves.
My eyes are bigger than my stomach. And my head. For every book I start to read I’ve bought four more, and having been in gainful employment for four months, and able to afford to indulge my appetite (if not my slightly more modest habit), my bedroom is now mostly comprised of unbroken spines and pristine papery edges. This has got to change. I need to read more books. Today I bought seven more.
What will follow will be an attempt to read read read, process, and write about the books I’ve accumulated since I got more money than sense and never really developed past books and into sports or other such hideously mundane habits. In my seven pile book that’s sitting on the coffee table in front of me are two anthologies about the practice and depiction of magic in literature, a collection of Irish folktales, one YA adventure, a collection of poetry, a classic, and a ghost story. A nice spread. There are more comic books upstairs (there most definitely will be more comic books!) So once this sentence is over the plan is to get stuck into the reading. You know what they say about best made plans though…