A high-speed TGV took us to Cologne, which already felt like a return, and then a regional train chugged us back home. We arrived in the early evening and found comfort within the walls that led me to my adulthood. The walls that carry the weight of a hundred books, probably, maybe more than that, which is a sentence that feels heavier than all of them together.
I've read most of them, but some I never had the strength to break in. The Fortress of Solitude by Jonathan Lethem, for example. I bought it a long time ago in London. I remember I liked the cover a lot. Today it seems a bit childish, but perhaps only because I was at that time. I read the first couple of pages but gave up soon. It's been collecting dust ever since.
I have this thing about books. I like owning them. Not in a modern street slang kind of way, which by the way would require great sophistication, but just in terms of old-fashioned ownership. I don't like borrowing books, because I hate returning them. I never used my library card to obtain literature. However, Sumin and I spent tonight between Brecht and Bradbury.
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