“Your life is made out of the days it’s made out of. Nothin else.”

I can only apologise for the slowness of my reading progress. I’m sure you wait avidly by your computer for a daily update of what I’ve read and what I am about to read, and yet you are consistently disappointed when I get through about one book every couple of months (at least, that’s what it seems like).

I’m always fascinated by people who plough through books like there’s no tomorrow. I cycle to work mostly, now, so I don’t even get my tube reading time. These people! Where do they get the time? Don’t their bottoms become numb? I suppose for some people, it’s their job; other than that, I don’t know what your excuse is.

Anyhow, I’m going to be out of commission for a while now. I’m not blinded or anything, just that I got hold of a three-in-one copy of Cormac McCarthy‘s Border Trilogy, which can only be described as ‘fat’. It might have to be broken down into chunks but if McCarthy continues the searing paucity and undertone of All The Pretty Horses, I may just end up devouring the lot.

Bruce Chatwin’s In Patagonia was lovely though – everything a travel book should be, and more. It was one of those rare moments of literature that makes me want to do something with my life: not just hop off to South America on a whim, but write, write about travel, or being at home, or going to the shops, anything, write it down. He’s a good egg, that one.


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