After my mother died, it was poignant and sad to look through the scraps of paper she kept in a drawer by her reading chair—notes of titles of interest, books to get. The writing becomes more frail with time and in the last years of her life, she was unable to read at all.
Coming back to our home in Canada after being away all winter, I am struck by all my books —my wonderful research library, my To Be Read stack, nicely awaiting me by the bed—as well as by all my lists of books. Granted, much of this has to do with building a bibliography, seeking out all the possible titles available on whatever subject I’m writing about—but in truth, I recognize that I’m a collector of titles of books to read as well as of books. There are not enough hours remaining in my life to do justice to even a small fraction of them (I’d better begin a short list), but that doesn’t seem to matter.
And all this to say: I read an article on Readerville Journal this morning which lists novels about travels into Mexico. I want to note it somehow, but I resist the urge to print it out—and so: here it is.
Image from BibliOdyessy.
