Breaking my (unintentional) blog hiatus to wish J.R.R. Tolkien a happy birthday.
The last book I finished, if I remember it right, was Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief. It was the first time I have ever cried over a book. The trailer for the movie of the same title came out a few days ago, and it looks really promising. I’m expecting myself to cry over the movie as well—or would pre-empting myself prevent that?
(Because really, you only need two words: Rudy Steiner.)
— Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez
As a kid, I thought there was nothing more glorious than filling a room with books, and so I had gotten excited whenever my collection grew.
The reality is a lot less romantic. I don’t have that much space for books, and I can’t read as much as I used to—which is why I’ve decided to find new homes for a handful of old books. These are the books I’ve neglected, ones I’ll never read again, and ones I don’t see myself reading in the near future.
Giving these books away doesn’t mean I love reading or books any less. My desire has just shifted from filling a room with books (including those I don’t love so much) to filling just a small shelf with ones I just can’t live without. I get more shelf space for new books, my friends get books for free. Everybody wins. So maybe the reality is more romantic, after all.