The Stack Beside the Bed
I keep more books than I will finish this month. That is not failure — it is a map of who I am becoming.
There is always a stack beside my bed: novels half-read, a book of poems, something about art, a children’s story I meant to return to the shelf.
English literature taught me that books are not tasks. They are companions. Some stay for years. Some visit for a weekend and change a single thought.
Reading without hurry
I no longer measure reading by pages completed. I measure it by attention returned — to language, to other lives, to the quiet after a good paragraph.
If you are choosing a book today, choose the one your hand reaches for twice. That is usually the right one.