At age 40, you don’t expect someone like me to pick up an Enid Blyton. Surely, I am too old for that?!? But as much as books mean stories, they also mean memories. Memories: lively, painful, colourful, haunting, and bittersweet. Memories that open up doors to a time you feel you’ve left far behind, but is actually just one thought away.
I have memories of being introduced to my first ever library – the collection of books my aunt and my cousins had in their house. Stacked one on top of the other, the books were placed pell-mell in that disorganised, yet loving manner that most book lovers (and hoarders) are so familiar with. Read More