On The Empress of India

Over the past day or so I have got lots and lots of books out of the library and I have put them all in a nice pile (in size order), I’m especially looking forward to reading some of the more visual art based ones because I hadn’t had to read many of those on my undergraduate course. The art books tend to be bigger and have more photographs. This is good. Of course all this borrowing is occurring as a result of a new found liberation that was not given to me in my earlier years here in Aber… I can now take twenty-odd books out! Before it was merely fifteen, although on one particularly studious week I managed to wrangle my limit up to sixteen! Rebel.

I have often been criticised for my¬†mistreatment of books, the main reason for this being that I very much enjoy bending the spine. This desire is not one purely driven by an immoral craving, the act has functional value, when the spine is bent the page is more clearly seen, I understand more of the book, I see what was previously unseen. My relationship with her (the book) is such that violence must be inflicted before she can show me all that she has to offer me (not a metaphor for anything). But when it comes to library books, they have already shown all they have and more to countless others before, what’s more their owners have reinforced them with protective clothing to defend them from the roughness of all the varied future loanage – dust covers, self-adhesive plastic etc. What does that mean? Well, you tell me. You tell me.

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