I’ve been reading a beautiful book recently, by a bestselling author.
Now, my normal reading procedure is:
a) order the book at Amazon
b) read it in one day
c) put it away
d) feel the need to
e) re-read it a few weeks/months later. Repeat.
It usually doesn’t matter how many pages my printed victim has: I’ll do them all in one day. Except if:
a) I’ve been reading several books at once (happens often)
b) I have so much work I cannot read, not even at the weekend.
The latter is the case now, which is why I am grateful that my lovely book is divided into short chapters…
Wanna try and have a guess, which book it is? Which author? Here is the beginning:
I am nothing but a corpse now, a body at the bottom of a well. Though I drew my last breath long ago and my heart has stopped beating, no one, apart from that vile murderer, knows what’s happened to me. As for that wretch, he felt for my pulse and listened for my breath to be sure I was dead, then kicked me in the midriff, carried me to the edge of the well, raised me up and dropped me below. As I fell, my head, which he’d smashed with a stone, broke apart; my face, my forehead and cheeks, were crushed; my bones shattered, and my mouth filled with blood.
Quite a bloody beginning it is. A few chapters later, the talk is all about money:
Before I arrived here, I spent ten days in the dirty sock of a poor shoe-maker’s apprentice. Each night the unfortunate man would fall asleep in his bed, naming the endless things he could buy with me. The lines of this epic poem, sweet as a lullaby, proved to me that there was no place on Earth a coin couldn’t go.
So this time I am forced to read slowly, savouring every sentence. Not bad; I thought I was a hopeless case, not being able to read every letter the first time and needing another go or two.
Funny though that this does not mean I cannot postpone pleasure to do my duty first… It’s just the way I read, not the way I live.