letters, words, pages, books....

I’ve been reading forever. I’ve been reading because words make me feel.

I first went down the grand boulevard, Vargas, Christies, Conan Doyle, Steel, Merle.

Then went up the posh district to show I could appreciate a classic when I saw one: Hugo Hugo and Hugo again. But also Balzac and Voltaire, Musset and Flaubert, Poe and Shakespeare and Tchekhov.

I thought of the meanders and perhaps thought I could master them. I fell in love with Oscar Wild and Dostoïevski and Tenessee, for the uniqueness of their vision for their beautiful mastery of composition.

I tried modern highway like Pennac, Bryson, Marian Keyes, Anna Gavalda. Liked their skill and irony, their simplicity.

But there is this one thing I’ve done forever, a unique adventure that gives me a thrill when I get it right.

There is this pile of book, I don’t really know where they come from, and for half of them I wouldn’t be able to tell you the author. These are books I’ve discovered before they went famous, like the Otori Clan, Memoirs of a Geisha, Brothers, One thousand Splendid Sun, Reine du Sud….

I’ve got this thing, I get into a library. AND I STOP THINKING.

it's quite an achievement for me really.....

I let covers, authors’ names (that I will forget just as soon), size of book attract me. I let my hand slowly touch the spines. And then I don’t really know why but I’ll stop.

I’ll pick up this book. Read the title. Look at the picture. I won’t turn it back to read the summary.

No not Yet!

It’s like a first attraction. 

You’ve been drifting astray and then you find that one guy. You want the name, you like how it feels, the weight and how it fits in your hand, you like the promise it seems to deliver, but you don’t want to know what he’s about, not just yet. 

You want to keep the magic of the mystery just a little bit longer.  And when you feel it might be the book for the night, you let yourself take a snap. You’ll screen through the pages like in a discussion when you’ll try to get a glimpse of him and if you like it. And if that passes too, the final step. 

You smell it. You bury your face in the pages and slowly inhale.

Instantly you’ll know. You’ll know if that’ll be the book you’ll go to at night, the book you’ll have sleepless nights with. If that book will drag you in its universe no matter what you do.

And the other Saturday, with Mage at WHSmith rue de Rivoli, in the warmth of the library, I felt like I was back in England for a few instant.

And as I was glowing among the books. That one cover attracted me. 

The Fall By Simon Mawer. 

Everything felt right and the smell took me years back when I first discovered English books. A bit bitter, somehow sweet, totally overwhelming. That faded scent of glue that evokes stories, adventures…

Yeah people must have thought I was barking mad, getting my nose into the pages of a book!

But that's how I chose it. 

I’ve started it and so far it holds it promise.