I was carrying Moby Dick under my arm when a friend of mine tried to justify her lack of reading with the weight of books. According to her, they’re not practical at all and because of it, she keeps them out of the backpack and prefers to read only at home.
To me, the weight is part of reading it. It’s the physical contact that makes the book almost like a part of your body, a temporary limb that you will carry anywhere with you. It’s the equivalent of a phase, a curiosity you need at that moment, and some time onwards.
My favorite books, I still carry with me. They are the essential limbs and feelings that make me go on with life. The Hours is quite possibly my heart. The Unbearable Lightness of Being could be my brain. Into the Wild is my blood circulation. The Virgin Suicides is what I wished I had in my adolescent years. A Moveable Feast is the kind of life I always dreamed of. And so forth.
There is sanity into thinking that without each and every one of those, I would feel handicapped, lost or utterly and completely alone. Beyond limbs, but they also are my safety blankets.
drinking while writing: Budweiser / listening while writing: The Smiths – Asleep