It usually happens spontaneously, barrels at me without warning, a single question that leaves me um-ing and ah-ing: ‘What’s your favorite book? Suggest something for me to read!’
I have a degree in English literature and people would (wrongly) describe me as ‘well-read,’ so I suppose there is an expectation that I simply know what’s good. Let me tell you now: I don’t. Most of the things I read in university, I had to consume quickly because I was overloaded with novels and academic articles and poems and x-y-and-z. I forgot how to savor literature, and I suppose, I began to fall out of love with it. I probably fell asleep reading A Winter’s Tale on more than one occasion and I’m pretty sure there’s a Dickens’ novel tucked away somewhere that I still haven’t finished. Don’t get me wrong, I worked hard for my degree and held high expectations for myself but there are plenty of people who know more about literature than I do. Talk to them. They’ll have better advice.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t have an endless list of books I adore. Books that remind me of rainy mornings and hours gone by; books that remind me of people and places I have loved; books that evoke a bit too much nostalgia.