The Book of Dust

52599318_2614481928567032_8927623234552070144_oI think most bookworms, readers and writers alike, own a stack of books that they haven’t read yet. They live together on the bedside table, or maybe they’ve made it on to the bookshelf, but they’re separate from the others. Waiting to be loved. This is one of mine – ‘The Book of Dust’ by Philip Pullman

There’s always another two or three books that I need to read first, and I tend to read more than one book at a time, but still, I don’t know why I haven’t begun this gorgeous mammoth hardback yet. Perhaps because its so big its daunting, or too heavy to lug around with me, or because its so special I want to devote some proper quality time to sinking into its pages and absorbing the words.

This book was a gift. My students bought it for me, along with a beautiful cake and card, when I left them in Cambridge. It’s extra special because it reminds me of them, and the pride I have towards each of their achievements that followed. I guess I don’t want to let that go by reading the book, and being done with it, when what it represents means so much to me.

Is that strange? Is it just a book? Do people love other things the way bookworms love books? Is it strange to love this one, considering I haven’t even got around to reading it? Is it strange that I don’t want to read it, in case I love it any less?

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