It's that time of year I take it upon myself to do a major vacuuming of all the books in our abode (we're back in the place that are most likely to call home as things stand) and run a cloth over the racks of CDs. It's a tedious operation but a good way of reminding me just how much I've got that I've never really done justice to. Also a reminder of past pleasures. Books have an intensity about them which contrives to suggest they are still alive even whilst dormant upon dusty shelves. They won't let you forget them.
Somehow material on-line doesn't possess the same weight, the same presence. A silly thought really since the content cannot in any way be changed. But the physical actuality of a book in a room is a reminder of its need to be read. Even the act of cleaning a book comes close to an act of homage.
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