A book doesn’t care if you fold the laundry “correctly.” A book doesn’t care what time you put dinner on the table. As far as a book is concerned, you never have to sweep the floor.
A book doesn’t expect anything from you. It doesn’t get mad at you if you have other projects to tend to. A book contentedly waits for you to find a moment to return to it. You can give it 100% of your attention, or let it set there, by the bed, for weeks, before opening it up again. Either way, you aren’t in trouble.
A book doesn’t get jealous of your friends or your family or your successes or the other books you’ve read. A book doesn’t continually remind you of your failings, unless it’s one of those preachy self-help books, but it’d be healthier to stay away from those books anyway.
A book never gives you the stink-eye, or the silent treatment.
A book doesn’t mind if you eat while reading it. It doesn’t care if you dog-ear its corners, or smear a skosh of peanut butter on one of its pages, although the thought of that makes me cringe. Continue reading →