When I start a book, any book, it takes me to a different place. Whilst I am reading it, I literally disconnect from ‘this’ – whatever ‘this’ is – ‘this’ sum total of everything and everyone and ever after. When I am done reading a book, it stays with me always. Life goes on and so does time, and portions of the book swell its own formless limits until they become my idea. But before a page seeps into my mind, there is this little blizzard that happens in my brain. Portions of sentences and associated thoughts; fragments of words and associated sensibilities; bits of characters and associated resemblances. I think I should write about those. Because these little blizzards took me to a different place – and every time they did that, they brought me home.
I’ll call this series of writings ‘First Impressions’.
I’ll call this series of writings ‘First Impressions’.
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