I first enjoyed the mysteries of reading books
aged thirteen, when I first joined a public library.
My membership had to be counter-signed
by a staff member in the discouraging care home
my parents assigned me to live in for five years.
High on their list of things to be discouraged
was being reflective, and enjoying reading.
I will save you the horrors of being made to play sport
whilst being so inept and uncoordinated. Sport was torture.
My adult reading started, aged seventeen when I first read '1984',
when I was way too young to understand it, and peaked
when I read 'Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance'
five times over ten years, the structure of which I still marvel at.
Even two years ago I would read up to thirty books a year,
and hard books at that, memoirs of surviving Auschwitz.
But with fewer friends, and more time spent in my own
or online I have tired since the days of 'Always having a book,
if not several, to read', I still read. But now I no longer write
reviews of the books to express my enjoyment of them.
Over thirty years ago reading was a thrill.
I did not know what new literary joy
I might find in the next book. Now I don't know
what will engage with me, and refresh
my attention span. It could well be silence.
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