My life as a reader began with library books, then books we had to read for our English literature classes, which I found so boring compared to the library books. It is not that I did not like the books; it is that I did not like picking them apart.
Reading, at that time, was an intimate solo pursuit. Sometimes, my sisters and I would share books if they were especially riveting. Yet, we did not speak about what we liked or did not like about the books we read.
Sometime during our childhood, we started getting books as presents. My father built bookshelves in our bedrooms. Slowly, my favourite books grew like a family populating the shelves over the years. When I left home at 14, they were left behind.
My mother sent me "care packages" wherever I was living, with a selection of books to tide me over. This continued until I moved to Germany. The bookstores would have a small selection of English books. They were dear in price as well as eclectic in selection.
Thankfully, there were always the classics. Therefore, I bought and reread a large selection of books (Jane Austin, Bronte sisters, and Charles Dickens) of the books we read in school. Astonishingly, they were not in the least bit boring. They were brilliant and have remained a constant read in the proceeding decades.
One bookstore had a selection of Beckett, Wolfe, Camus, and Kafka, which became the dark horses in my family of books. Another store had Russian classics and works of dissidents. I loved every single one of them. There is nothing more precious than finding a good book in the corner of a bookstore in a foreign country.
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