I'm a book-addict. Not only the walls of my apartment are covered with books, there are many more on top of the wardrobe as well as in boxes in the basement. Quite some of them I haven't read, and of the ones that I have read, I often can't recall what they were all about. What I however regularly remember is where I had bought them and where I had read them, under what circumstances and in what mood.
Recently, I took some from the shelves and started to read. And, I was surprised and enchanted that quite some immediately struck a cord.* It seems that on a thoroughly unconscious level I must have always known what appeals to me. My explanation? There is no past, there is only the eternal present.
* Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese, Wolf Solent by John Cowper Powys, The Houdini Girl by Martyn Bedford.
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