Even the thrill of mixing cold and flu tablets with paracetamol waned. And all my carefully collected books looked too hard to read. Moany, mopey, tea drinking, aloe-vera tissue blowing, stay at home in bed watching the ceiling sick. The book had to stay where it was and that was that. Only books I choose myself get to go on the shelf. You can’t chuck an unwanted gift before the year is out. You know that feeling you get when someone who doesn't know what you’re about plays you a song and really wants you to like it as much as they do? You know that feeling? It disturbs the words, it messes with the carefully designed cover. The obligation I feel towards the object because it is a gift comes between me and the pages.
I remember vacuuming around it and resting coffee cups on it when my bedside table was too full of crap to be of use. The book didn't appeal to me so a plonked it on the floor by my bed and there it stayed. Years back now I was given a copy of The Magus by John Fowles for my birthday.
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