touch of the hand

I can't lie anymore. Sometimes, just sometimes, I judge books by how they feel.

And yet, I like books of all feelings---of all shapes, of all sizes, of all page-consistencies. I couldn't possibly describe how they are supposed to feel, the boxes they must tick before I nestle them beside each-other on a shelf---or better yet, nestle them in the space between my thumbs. Some books, they just feel right. They feel nice to hold---not too big---and nice to thumb through---pages just the right thickness, just the right amount of pulp. It doesn't matter if they are second-hand---sometimes that's better, that smell of old-age wealth and wisdom. It doesn't matter if they are hard-back, either---although they only usually catch my eye if they are adorned, nicely, with a gilt cover.

But Penguin's Popular Classics (in green) are some of my favourites right now. They tick all the boxes---and they fit my student budget (although I probably never properly budget, not when it comes to books).

(Find them at Amazon).

And that last one, The Portrait Of A Lady, is the one I'm reading now.

What are you reading, right now?

confessions

When he can't be here to sleep on his side of the bed, I fill it with another (lesser) love - literature.

confessions

He is the only one I want to hear "it will be okay" from. I want to hear it every day for the rest of my life. And every day I hope that I will be lucky enough to---I hope I have been good enough to deserve it.

confessions

I often wish I had been brave enough to study abroad---but I wasn't, and I am not convinced I ever will be.

...

These are my new favourite snacks.

...

I caved and bought that dress---the one with the sailboats and the too short a hem.

confessions

Sometimes I strain my neck just to see what other people are reading on the bus, on the train, in the library.

I just like to know.

I like to consider it "research".

confessions

Sometimes I talk too much.

But you really, really have to get to know me first.

confession

Today I have a little confession to make.

I am an English Literature undergrad incapable of writing a good essay. I cannot connect my points in the clever, coherent way I dreamed of. I cannot propose interesting and engaging points without faltering a little, without taking my reader on a wild goose chase.

Sometimes, quite often actually, I do not feel like I deserve my university place. Give it to someone else, I want to say. Someone who does not procrastinate, who cites as she writes and gets excited by whatever text she is handling.*

Sometimes my writing feels a little sloppy, a little uneducated, a little like a child's in an academic world.

And do you know what sucks? Grades count from now on. They do.

*Sometimes I get excited. Quite often, in fact. Then I execute it poorly and do not do it justice. Sometimes I am a little offender to the literary world.

confession

I have a confession.*

Perhaps the pain in my stomach is self-inflicted and not in the anxious way I thought it was. Perhaps it just hurts from too much holding in; too much time trying to perfect the perfect posture; the svelte one, the tall one, the tiny-cinched-in-waist-and-not-rotund-one. Perhaps I am guilty of this.

And perhaps I am just a typical woman.

*Actually, I have many.