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booksBooks have been part of my life ever since I lernt how to read, and since that time there has always been a book in my bag, and many more on my bedside table.

I have to admit that no matter how fast I read or how quickly I turn the pages, the pile never seems to wane and that is mainly down to the fact that I can’t help but buy books nearly everywhere I go.

There is something amazingly soothing about browsing a bookshop, selecting unknown works of fiction, admiring the book covers and reading the first few sentences of any type of plot. For me, it is almost impossible to leave without one or ten books stowed away in a bag, hours of escapism ready to be devoured.

But, as I made up my bed early this morning and my eyes lingered on the books on my bedside table and I couldn’t help but let out a sigh of frustration. After all no matter how much I read, how many books end up on my shelf or how many stories change the way I see the world, I will never be able to read every book that is written and more stories than I care to think of will always stay unread by me.

So for now I will just have to take comfort in the fact that I do have a little bit more time during the summer to tackle the books on my bedside table (and the ones on a shelf beside it) allowing me to go out and buy some more stories tiucked away between two paper covers.

Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read.

Groucho Marx

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