Everyone knows books are magical. However, for me this bears more truth than for the others.
A week after starting The Grapes of Wrath I learned I had to search for a new place to stay. And while reading Austen’s Mansfield Park I found a lovely and quite cheap studio that became all mine. Perhaps it’s my wishful thinking, but every time I start a new book its life starts influencing mine.
I’ll say just this: the book I’m reading now has a very bad influence over me.
I’ve been “good” for so long that I forgot how to handle the “bad”. And it’s back and it wants to take me places I’ve never been before. Places I never wanted to go to before and which I find numbly comforting these days. And everything but my common sense pushes me towards them. At this point I don’t know if it’s better to be honest and a little bored or spontaneous and a little lonely.