I thirsted for your affection. The books that you gave to me since childhood seemed a sign that my longing would be fulfilled. Yet, from the beginning, the great distance in years between us gave rise to desperation, like the turbulent seas between continents. Could I know these books in the same way that you had known them, and would I know you then?
As a child, I wanted you to be one person, but as I became an adult, I noticed that you had several faces, although I couldn’t clearly make out any of them. My unease grew, and after your death I mourned you by reading and re-reading all of those books. They were your own favorites, which you had read at different times in a life spanning over a century. I thought that by reading them I could put my unease to rest. Instead, they took me down a hundred bewildering paths, leaving me with more questions than answers. Eventually, each path led full circle back to me and the potential consequences of my own contradictions; all in a time when dictators had begun to shout across the air waves once again.
This is the prologue to a short story I will be sharing with you in parts during the coming weeks. It revolves around the question of what the books we read say about us.