Our home is filled with old paper and cats.

I have a hard time articulating how I feel about reading and books. When someone asks me if I like to read and what I like to read, I start with the simplest statements first. Primarily, I read classics and antiquarian works in nearly every genre. I particularly like literature in translation from across the globe. I have a soft spot for forgotten volumes I find in used bookstores, especially in bargain basements. I like to read authors that have threatened to be buried by time and works that maybe I’ve heard of distantly, somewhere, maybe.

The more complicated statements are about if I like to read. I don’t just like it. It isn’t just a hobby. Reading and books form an integral part of my life. They help calm me down. They soothe me. I read to learn and I read to think. I read to study and I read to take a break from study. The reading I have done and will do and can do define the eras of my life.

For the last few years, I haven’t been able to read prose work – my concentration was too poor due to severe depression. But recently, prose books and classics have again become a major part of my life. I want to celebrate that and appreciate everything I read, because there was a time when I struggled to read anything at all.

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