But that's okay, because between us, Carin and I have already analyzed what my shelves say about me. I already know that my bookshelves say I have a serious addiction and need an intervention. They also say I read without regard to quality since I run the gamut from highbrow to scraping the gutters. Oh, and I suspect that they also say I have spurts of anal retentiveness (hence the alphabetical thing and the separation by read/unread and hardback/trade/mass market but that the cattywampous stacks not neatly shelved rat me out as not as terminally organized as I'd like to be. Carin added "that the sagging of certain shelves say that books are more important to you than the imminent avalanche that could in fact pinion you to the floor, perhaps badly injured," an then went on to suggest that I might not be opposed to being in the hospital in traction because, well, more reading time. Take a gander at your own shelves. What do they tell bookshelf snoopers like me about you?
This past week I spent a lot of time dipping into books and then setting them aside almost as if I wanted to make sure all of my bookmarks got equal use. But my book journeys took me to some wondrous places. I visited an Indo-Pakistani journalist who learned through tragedy that your family is always a part of yourself no matter how far from their path you roam. I solved a 40 year old crime in Sweden. I learned about the past and present of Sri Lanka through the eyes of a university teacher. I made the acquaintance of a charming little girl who came into her own in the early 20th century. And bookmarks continue along in too many books to recount here. Where did your page travels take you this week?