"Again and again something in one's own life, or in the life around one, will seem so important that one cannot beat to let it pass into oblivion. There must never come a time, the writer feels, when people do not know about this."
Lady Murasaki, The Tale of Genji
Lately I've been reading lots. I think to date, this year, I've read more books than I read the whole of last year (which is more likely a poor reflection on how much I read last year, then a good reflection of how much I've read this year).
I've thought a little about the time when I first learnt to read, and the books I would bring home from school and read under the bed covers with a torch, often adamant to finish a story past my bedtime, knowing then I could borrow another book, and again, enter through my imagination, into other world, the next night.
Between the books that I must read, I find myself going back to the books of my childhood, the ones I loved first. And strangely more than the words on the page, I wonder more about the lives of these authors, and the events that inspired them to carefully craft and group words in ways that ignite our imaginations even hundreds of years later.
As the air gets colder, and the days get short, you don't have to ask what I'm doing.
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