Although pragmatism and bitter resignation about the realities of life have long been telling me to pull the plug on this book blog—put it out of its misery, yadda—I’m too selfish to do so. I put up this little corner of the internet because I was, simply put, rather lonely. And although books were—and continue to be—one of the best ways to assuage one’s solitude [or rather, to remind one’s self that being alone was nothing to fear with a book in one’s hand], the experience estranges you from the world. It feeds your self-indulgence, going beyond just bowing over crisp, creamy pages to finding yourself demand that your experiences be heard, your undying love for this character be recognized, your notice of a particular turn of phrase be given an opportunity to rise beyond mere envy-admiration.
Four years ago, I put up this blog because I loved books and I needed to declare it so. Simply: I needed to indulge myself. Four years on, the rationale remains much the same, albeit with some sanity-ensuring stipulations. And so this book blog remains, and I will figure out how to keep it alive. If you are still with me—if you were brought here by a ping from your inbox or your Twitter feed, or if purely by chance—then, thank you. I tremble before your expectations, I know that I will most likely fall short of mine; and I let you know that nothing about this venture has been as easy and natural as it once was. But I must continue to indulge myself, and so here I am. That’s just how this little cobwebbed corner of the internet works.