Sentient Puddle

I like reading. I mean, I like reading books, newspapers, the odd magazine. It’s one of those activities that you think is going to get usurped by some technological development, like a direct feed into your brain from your new iPod or something, but reassuringly still remains the same. No matter how many Sunday magazine supplement adverts they have with new ideas to help you turn the page of your book, or hold it for you so that your hands are free to do something else (what type of book are you reading?!), it’s great to just sit down and read as much or as little of your reading material as you like.

You can read in silence, or you can have the radio or music on in the background. It’s something you can do  in the bath, or on a train (although not both at the same time annoyingly, unless it’s a very posh train). You really can drift away from whatever reality you live in for  a period of time. Perhaps when you’re really into a book, that’s what hypnosis is like. Sometimes I like a trashy crime thriller, and I really didn’t have myself down as that type of person. It was a guilty pleasure, but now I don’t even feel that guilty.

How great is a book that you can read more than once? You know what’s happening, what’s going to happen, but you still stumble across something that you missed the first time, or remembered differently. And how good is it to be pleasantly surprised at a book that you expected little of, but actually meant a great deal?

I like computers. I like my Wii, I love Guitar Hero on my Playstation. But I’ve like books since I was a kid, and I like books now. I’m pretty sure they’re going to remain a reassuringly constant pleasure throughout my life. Can’t say that about much now, can you?