I seldom post about the books I buy online because, well, because they remain mostly unread. Heck, I try to read them at once after they arrive but life happens … a friend leaves or an acquaintance whom you’ve been meaning to invite for dinner suddenly dies, you see? So. Before I know it, they’re piled up on my bedside bookcase. And. I’ve forgotten the story.
Jonas Jonasson is probably the only living writer whose books I totally own. Since he’s written only three so far, they’re quite easy to collect, ha, ha. Atm (that’s tweetspeak for at the moment btw), I’m getting quite excited at his third, Hitman Anders and the Meaning of It All, which is said to be on its way to yours truly if an email from Book Depository is to be believed. When will it be in my hands? I don’t know. But the pleasure of waiting for books to arrive is …. indescribable.
My only collection of books by a single writer is below. Sometimes I feel nostalgic and want to read them just to wallow in the past because reading them brings to mind the lost innocence of my youth and the circumstances when I first read them. But. They’re not here.
If books were people, I guess there’d be more tears in the world.