I got more than I dared to hope for from this year’s Winter Book Saloon. Due to some serious clothes shopping I had to do, my book fund was low. I managed, however, to get my hands on these four titles:
- Carson McCullers – Reflections in a Golden Eye
- Karel Čapek – Tales from Two Pockets
- Andrey Kurkov – The Tale of the True People’s Inspector (first volume of the Geography of a Single Shot)
- Michail Sholokhov – Quiet Flows the Don
I expected one book more, which was promised as a present of my own choice and while I was deciding which one I would want it to be my dear sister, and Joanna too, were so very kind to demand their own rights to buy me presents… So I ended up with these titles as well:
- Jose Saramago – Death With Interruptions
- Kazuo Ishiguro – When We Were Orphans
- Marcus Zusak – The Book Thief
- Fusheng Wu – The Poetics of Decadence. Chinese Poetry of the Southern Dynasties and Late Tang Periods
Some time ago I was a bit saddened thinking I do not have book traditions or habits of my own. Waking up yesterday morning I realized I do have some sort of a tradition. A ritual really… Every time I come home with a bunch of books bought at some fair or another, I am urged to keep them as close as possible during the rest of the day – smelling them, touching their covers, turning pages (not reading them, just looking at the letters), reading blurbs or dedications and enjoying the thoughts of delights I would find between their covers.. However, the main part of this bonding ritual takes its place when the night comes – I bring books to bed, pile them up one on another close beside my pillow and I gradually fall asleep looking contentedly at their spines.
In the morning they are ready to find their places on the bookshelves.