A finished book sits on your shelf like an old friend, with his wrinkled spine, a head full of shared memories, worn but so loved. You think about where you read it, I pick up an already read book and not only am I in the world of the book but in the world I once inhabited. Today I picked up The Hobbit for the first time since I was read it when I was at school and there I was eight years old hidden under the sheets as Smaug first reared his head. I have got into the habits of underlining parts of books that resonate with me. I look through them now and remember how I was feeling when I literally put pen to paper.
To put down a half read book is like living half a love affair. You may have gone through some of the joys, some of the heartache but you haven’t lived it all. You’re not able to put it down and look back at it all; maybe smile at it, more than likely miss it but if you haven’t gone through it all then you’ll never be able to say you’ve lived it.
I have a pile of unfinished books on their own special shelf. They sit there like reserves at a football match waiting for their time to shine. Maybe it’s time to pick one off the shelf and start the love affair all over again, one page at a time.