Those who are freshly in love usually deem as special the day when they introduce their chosen one to their parents. In a similar way, it was a special day for me when I took Marcel Proust, my current literary companion, with me to the green space on Harju Street, where I have a habit of reading every day for an hour or two.
October 2011
Homesickness in Istanbul: reading a novel set in Paris. Does reading such a novel make one homesick? Does reading in general make one homesick? Reading is home.
August 2014
I wanted to read the four books that I have waiting on the shelf before leaving for Spain and take with me on the trip the fifth one that I plan to buy tomorrow. When travelling, after all, it is not short stories or poetry collections that I prefer to read but a long novel that ties together the places, experiences and moods in and around me.
But I cannot read the first one because it is written in difficult French, and I don’t have the energy to devote my full attention to it now.
I don’t want to read the second one because, although I have chosen it precisely for its lightness – the novel is set in pre-industrial French countryside –, it seems too simple a read at the moment.
The third book will remain on the shelf because it is about Istanbul, and from Istanbul it is the time to take a break now.
The fourth one is a 20-century city novel, modernist, subtextual, full of intellectual allusions – just the type of literature that I have always loved. However, since this book has intrigued me for many years and has been in my reading list ever since I bought it last February, the desire to read it has become poisoned by a sense of duty. Also, the edition is in English, and these days I would rather read something in Estonian before and during a trip.
Some time ago I wrote that reading is home. When I am between books I feel homeless. Now I would say that reading in Estonian is home.
What book to read next and what book is best suited to be read in a chosen place – these have become existential questions for me. I know what book I am going to buy tomorrow, because until the day before yesterday, when I saw it translated into Estonian at a bookstore, it had existed in my consciousness only in the form of a faint flickering, and not even as a title, but just as the name of its author.
In order to want to read a book, I must have forgotten it before I discover it.
March 2016