Once upon a time, a long time ago, I used to take one big book on holiday with me.
Sometimes it didn’t pay off. I was enjoying chunky history tomes, and took one with me about Napoleonic times. I don’t think it was bad, but it wasn’t what I wanted at the time. It didn’t thrill me. So there’s a hefty book taking up space in my suitcase. I had to lug it around with me for the rest of the holiday and its weight in my bag spoke of resentment.
Another time I took a book called House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. It told the story of a house larger on the inside than the outside, with letters, manuscripts, footnotes, empty pages. I’ve never had such a visceral reading experience. It was utterly creepy. My body felt this book, woozy and spacey.
A perfect holiday read – another space, not my own.