I had just finished The Master and Margarita when I was queuing for a coffee at my local bookshop in Bondi, Gertrude & Alice, and I saw they had the Penguin Classic edition was on sale. While I’m sure I may have read it as a child, as an adult it’s always been a book that had never quite made it to my list of reading priorities until a friend recommended it recently. The Little Prince was one of the said unread books until a fortnight ago. And yet, and yet, there are still many hundred of books I fear I may never get around to reading, unless given a particular reason to do so.
I too have read my first book by an Indonesian author, and a couple of contemporary novels I’ve had my eye on for a while. I finished thirteen books in January more in the months that have since passed. Thus far, 2019 has been a good year for books: I read my first Agatha Christie, I read a Russian classic hailed by many as the best book of the twentieth century. I often wonder if I’ll ever reach a point in my reading life where I’m satisfied by the amount of books I’ve read where I can say with confidence that I’ve read the classics and the critically acclaimed that have long haunted my to-be-read pile.
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