Now here's a strange occurrence. After almost nine years of blogging about books, mostly, and my life, sometimes, I'm finding the need to do so less and less. I'm not as inclined to jump out of bed and wonder what comments have been left while I was sleeping as I once may have been. I'm not as inclined to mentally construct posts while I'm reading. And I'm sure you've noticed that I'm not inclined to leave nearly enough comments as anyone considered a polite blogger would do.
Either I'm getting a bit lazy, or I'm getting a bit tired of it all.
But, just like a rat in the psych lab I'm susceptible to partial reinforcement. The arrival of books which still appear on my doorstep continues to thrill me. (Waiting for me now in the basket by my wing chair are Where The Bird Sings Best by Alejandro Jodorowsky from Restless Books, and The Rabbit Back Literature Society by Pasi Ilmari Jääskeläinen from Pushkin Press). The interaction on your blogs over books unfamiliar to me continues to enthrall me. This passion I have, called the-love-of-books, refuses to die.
I wouldn't expect it to. I've loved books for over fifty years. They speak to me when I have no words of my own. And I guess that's what will carry me through the interim of I-don't-want-to-blog-right-now.
Because I will always want to read.
