Note
Just reading
London, an afternoon with nothing in it.
Everyone has their own reason for liking London.
One of mine is that you keep turning a corner and finding a second-hand bookshop.
I was there for work, and decided to stay one more day for myself, with no plan, just a bit of "me" time.
That afternoon, I had a few hours to kill before heading to the airport, so I just walked aimlessly in the neighborhood.
After a while, I ducked into a bookshop, right around on the corner, just to get away from the noise of the street.
When I opened the door, I saw the counter straight in front of me. Behind that sat an older man, a bit thin, with a pair of black glasses, wearing a beige shirt under a brown knitted vest with a thick book in his hands. He looked up and gave me a small and polite smile, then went back to his book, turned a page, in no hurry at all.
I browsed the shelves for a while. Then a book cover caught my attention.
A black and white photograph: a pigeon flying past a building. The background seems to be rushing past, and the pigeon is fixed there, in the middle of the frame.
A Place to Live.
I opened it and found out it was a collection of essays by an Italian writer, Natalia Ginzburg. That is how I found a writer I now like, with no preparation at all.
It reminded me of a homeless man I had passed on the street earlier that day. Unshaven, sitting against a wall, holding a book.
I don't know what he was reading.
I am just curious how many people still read like that. Not to learn a skill, not to pass an exam, not to get to an answer faster. Just reading.
I don't know how much longer that will be a common sight.
