It was 2015 and I was lying prone on the bed. My arms were losing blood flow as they dangled above the floor, aiming the Kindle toward the light.
But I couldn’t move, so my arms would have to die. I was enraptured.
At one point, I said to myself, “Where has this book been all my life?”
In search of my next read in a year I read 67 books, my wife’s Kindle randomly had East of Eden on it. Non-discriminating, I gobbled John Steinbeck’s opus on a screen without a backlight.
To think, I shared a room with this behemoth of a tale years. I shared a couch. I shared a bed.
And yet, it waited.
Great works don't lie there
Grind up and dry there
They wait for impatiently
Your hands to find
Leaf through the pages
Can't you feel the ages
Rise up like dust now
In the sunlight there
-Glen Hansard, "Brother's Keeper"
A day might come when you say to yourself, “Where did all the good art go?”
Hopefully you find something within arm’s reach.
