My old lovers

I´m just dying for a book. Really. That old saying "you don´t miss it till its gone" seems the story of my life right now, and I so miss a good read. I sure consume audiobooks, on a ratio of about one a day when my eyes are in denial of their intended purpose. But since I can´t afford them off the shelves I turn to Tradera, and sadly the swedes only seem open to domestic authors of crime novels en masse. Not that I mind the odd tale of murder and betrayal, but there are only so many coppers with domestic issues, indigestion and inclinations towards personal intoxication one can take. Or maybe they just save the good stuff.

As I do. It happens that I buy the odd one brand spanking if it catches my eye, even if its got crime written all over it. I recently got stuck on Jason Goodwin´s tales of Yashim the eunuck, and by all means they can murder all they want, as long as they do it in 19th century Istanbul. Maybe it cuz I can´t go anywhere myself now that I have fallen for his lifelike descriptions of the mosques, bathhouses and bazaars, to the degree that I increased my cafeine intake by at least the double while engaged in the corridors of the sultan´s harem. But I have noticed a fondness towards all things east of the Mediterranean of late, not only in books, but when I can, in films, food, music, whatever.
Not much of religion as of yet however. I don´t know much of Islam or how its changing to adapt to new lifestyles, but I can´t help thinking of christmas trees when seeing the timeless minarets that nowadays proudly sport sets of speakers and a ring of cables around their tops. With pouting lips they call their faithful to prayer.

Anyway, I´d really like to read something. I love books. The soothing sound of someone turning pages. Quickly if in the middle of suspense, slower if ideep n engaging philosophies. I´m the kind of person who browse bookshops like you walk in the park, and would rather attend the most probably rainy Welsh Hay literary festival than a paid holiday in Thailand. I have wishlists on all booksellers´ websites that allow for that sort of function, and if I could read again tomorrow I would start on publications in double figures. But I´m all about pacing now, and the facts and fiction I´ve bought but have yet to read have qeued up in my bookshelf, silently looking down at me. Like zip files only their titles give clues to the vast thoughts and lives works what their modest dimensions bravely compress.
I seek comfort in the titles I´ve already devoured. Eyes lingering on, or fingers touching their backs briefly allow a gentle brush of scenes unfold in memory. Like old lovers.