There are so many bookstores here, said Noi, as we walked along O'Connell Street and passed the very large Eason's shop there; More than in Manchester. A fair judgment. Especially taking into account the second-hand bookshops that seem to pop up everywhere. There's one on the road we take into the city centre called The Last Bookshop which has books piled up in random fashion in every corner. I reckon I could spend an exploratory four hours in there quite easily. The city has a distinct sense of literariness about it, and a self-awareness of such.
Yet for some reason I haven't felt any great desire to buy anything. No temptation at all. I suppose that holding back on buying stuff for the last two to three years or so has built a certain discipline in me. The only purchase I've made on this trip has involved Simon Schama's Citizens, which I've been reading rather fitfully in spare moments here & there. Add to this my purchase of Antony's Beevor's Stalingrad at the back end of November and I suspect that will be all I'll have added to the shelves until this time next year. Neither of these were bought on impulse, by the way. I've been sure for quite some time they were necessary reading for me.
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