I'd started with the Bryson, you see. Short flights don't do much for reading, but long waits in airports do. Still, in the humdrum of the last fortnight I haven't had much chance to so much as look at it. Or at that surprisingly handy copy of A Short History of Nearly Everything that I managed to grab in IGI Terminal 3.
And then the other day I noticed the copy of Gaiman's American Gods, hulking on a shelf around the last corner before you step into the mess, kinda by itself. And I was reminded of the last time I went back and forth between the two. Thunderbolt Kid was what it was. Reality with a little faint sprinkling of the fantastic. Neverwhere, on the other hand, now that was imagination on steroids!
So here I am, thumbing through a rather bruised and abused copy. Wrinkled and dog-eared :(. But barely a fifth of the way in, the scope of it all is astounding. Shadows in a storm, indeed. I have, however, learned not to let books keep me up too late on a boat :).
Ever feel you reached just a little too far out? And no matter how much you try to reel yourself back in after, there's always that question. Did I burn that bridge? Or am I just over-thinking it? There's a reason why I hate first impressions.
Currently: couched in mystery
Listening to: Dominique Cerejo - Yeh tumhari meri baatein