Every so often, I go through a wee existential crisis. The trigger? Books. Books, and specifically the certain knowledge that I will die before I read every book on my TBR (“to be read”) pile. My TBR pile is actually… a pile (two deep, on my windowsill); plus a drawer (full of the books that formed a similar pile under the bedroom window in the flat we moved from four years ago); plus the contents of my Kindle (damn you, 99p deal of the day!); plus an Instapaper folder full of links to books I’ve seen recommended on blogs and in reviews and in newsletters that I can’t possibly justify buying while I still have so much else to read. I’m on a rate of about… 40 books a year, I think? So it’s pretty depressing mathematics. It was that existential panic I felt rushing from my heart to my throat towards the end of June when, ahead of dinner with my friend Alice, I was browsing Waterstones to pick her up a gift (having talked myself out of what I believe would have been the fourth birthday copy of The Guilty Feminist I have purchased to date). I chose […]
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