Over the years, has I have gotten older; I continue to prayerfully read his stories. I never tire of the poetics in the small gestures and details or the lofty contrivances
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The book, a paperback edition of Simone Weil’s The Need for Roots, was cradled by the young man in the palms of his hands. He sat with dignity, his formal countenance and delicate presence transcended the mediocrity of his surroundings. At first glance it seemed he was simply holding a closed book with his head bowed in observation. A closer investigation revealed that he was actually reading whilst holding the half opened book at various acute angles. He occasionally adjusted the angle to accommodate the location of the words he read on the page. At all times the book remained barely ajar, it gave the impression that the act of reading was a covert-like operation, a private moment of prayer in a public space. He defied
Every weekday morning, as I walk my two children to kindergarten, we pass a bookshop. The bookshop is a small independent establishment that sells new, mainly paperback books. The neighbourhood is scruffy verging on run-down, but the bookshop’s location must be the envy of many a potential bookseller
…back to my youth when I began to realise that reading was not just something you did to gain knowledge, it was a profound devotional act, a reaching to the mystical beyond. As a teenager, gazing into my local bookshop on cold windswept winter evenings became a sacred act. It gave me a rarefied feeling that I was standing on the threshold of revelation