Photographer and bookmaker. Tea and typography enthusiast. Hardcore bibliophile. With too many freckles.
I'm not telling you valuable information like that. Are you crazy? Revealing my most cherished authors and books as if it were something casual like my mobile number or shoe size! It's much too personal. But I can tell you a story instead:
Once there was a man who professed to being in love with me. I told him it was just a phase, that it would pass. One spring evening, I showed him my bedroom (which is really a bookcase with a bed in the middle). I told him about my books - my favourite Tolstoy, the first book my father gave me as a young adult, my summer with DH Lawrence, the book I stole from the library because I simply could not live without it, the Terry Pratchett I read when I am ill, and so on. He listened. Eventually, I stopped. Feeling conscious and exposed. I had spoken for 45 minutes; he was late for a meeting. "That was beautiful," he said. In that moment I realised I could love this man. But can you guess? Yes, his feelings disappeared. The books stayed.
