Thursday, 12 June 2014
I'm shuffling off shelves of books. So many unread books, kept because I assumed that life was really very much longer than it is turning out to be... books on Stalin, books by Churchill, books of Parlour Games, book club editions of novels by Mary McCarthy, books on Dunkirk and Scapa Flow and Bonnie Prince Charlie and Lawrence of Arabia and Neville Chamberlain, Pears Cyclopedia 1974, books on football, cricket, chess, (read) paperback novels by - well all sorts... Does it feel good? It ought to, this sloughing off of an always impossible responsibility (actually a greedy desire to know everything). But it doesn't. It feels horrible, both reminding me of all my wasted hours and of the acceleration of time towards The End. Oh well, at least I found 'Up from Mametz', which I shall now read (and keep). It is inscribed with my grandfather's name, which was 'Wynn Wheldon' - books do live on.