The heavy silence of this wintry afternoon is punctuated by snores, the splash of water, the communication of insects and birds, a car door slamming in the distance. A heavy volume, the Complete Works of Saki, sits beguilingly on the divan, the somnolent eyes of the author peering out from the unimaginative brown cover, masking the world of humour and delight that lies within.

People come and go. They’re never the steady companions that books make.

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2 thoughts on “

  1. >Yes.Books don't complain when you forget about them for years altogether.They don't call you names when, one fine day, you just chance upon them, wipe the dust off the covers, and only faintly recall what was inside.They don't demand attention, they don't care what you're doing, or what a big slob you are.So what if there're ketchup stains on the pages? Who's riling? 😉

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