Books can’t talk.
I wish they could but although they are filled with words, what they have to say for themselves is rather limited. To spend more than a week with a book is to be sober at a party and to be sat next to ‘that guy’ who tells you ‘that joke’ AGAIN.
Others are like the person you should never have started talking to butnowyouareyoucan’tleavebecauseit’srudeandwhatthey’resayingisactuallyquiteinterestingandmaybeyou’reconnectingdespiteyourbestefforts. Some books will not leave you alone.
Some will ignore you, they play hard to get, they lure you in with a sense of nonchalance but once you start getting to know them you find out it was all a charming facade.
Some books are bloody great but you wouldn’t want them to meet your parents.
Other books are easy to talk to but there is little else to them.
I like books. Any books.
If they could talk to me, I would only leave my bookcase to buy more books or make a cup of tea.
When you buy a Kindle, you’re basically turning all of your favourite people into one person who pretends to be all of them and lacks the sincerity and charm of the real thing. Like Alistair Mcgowan, he’s a funny man, but he’s no party.