Not surprisingly, people tend to give me books for Christmas. Generally they fall into three categories:
1) one book that I start reading right awayand devour before Boxing Day
2) a few books that look really interesting and I'll read at some point in the next year
3) one or two books that I would read if I had nothing else to read, but that really hold very little appeal for me
This year, every book given to me falls into category #1, despote ranging across a great many genres and fields. Happiness, happiness, happiness
(melts in bliss)
2 comments:
You never told us the titles....
There was an essay in Sunday's New York Times Book Review that said giving another person a book was like buying underwear for someone.
I always hate to feel ungrateful for getting books that I am not interested in reading, but it is hard to understand the interior passion and interest one may hold for a book, or an author, or a subject. Certainly, such feelings are not completely rational, or do they need to be explained to others.
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