The idea of being weighed down made me uneasy, as if I lived on the surface of a frozen lake and each new trapping of domestic life - a pot, a chair, a lamp - threatened to be the thing that sent me through the ice. The only exception was books, which I acquired freely, because I never really felt they belonged to me. Because of this, I never felt compelled to finish those i didn’t like, or even a pressure to like them at all. But a certain lack of responsibility also left me free to be affected. When at las I came across the right book the feeling was violent: it blew open a hole in me that made life more dangerous because I couldn’t control what came through it.
