For some time, I have imposed a moratorium on myself on buying books – the type with smells and feels and which can be used as fuel for fires in times of need. There will not be space enough. But I will gladly make an exception for ‘On Reading’ by André Kertész.
Have been trying to emulate AK, but it’s tough – weeks can go by (and go by and go by, as Jesse says in ‘Before Sunset’), and you simply won’t see anyone reading a book on the train.
Then, two days ago, I got lucky.