What a great thread this is, so many books to add to my ever expanding to read list.
Ì have about forty cardboard boxes full of books to unpack (moved three times in the space of three years, last one two and half years ago —
and I am not fucking carting that lot around yet again, that's it!). That represents hundreds. Many — perhaps the majority — are unread. I still have to save the money to buy the bookshelves for them. For a long, long time, I couldn't go into any city in France or Britain without heading for the bookshops and walking out with several. When Amazon came along it became horribly easy — although I continue to buy from bookshops as well, because it will be a sad day when everyone simply reads everything off Kindle, having downloaded it.
I have, I suppose, a slightly ill relation to books. I used to go round and say (under my breath, not out loud, I'm not
that touched), “Yes, I know you're here. I know you're waiting. Be patient. I haven't forgotten. I shall get round to you.” I genuinely thought I'd read every single one before my time came. Now I know I won't. Doesn't matter. They're here. They've been “saved”. They're on someone's bookshelf, in someone's home.
As I get older, I've also got into the “bad” good habit of re-reading books I read many years ago. Few have disappointed me. Some have seemed even more astonishing the second time around, if that's possible. A case in point is Kerouac's
On The Road, which I devoured when I was eighteen. And then re-read during a couple of days when I was ill and decided to spend them in bed, something over ten years ago. So in my late fifties.
Just finished reading
War and Peace for the first time ever. The edition I read was the oldest books I possessed — the old Penguin edition in two volumes, translation by Rosemary Edmonds, dating from the fifties. I bought those two volumes when I was twelve, in 1966. I'm now seventy. See… I do get round to it.
They know that.