Books, books, books

I went on a book-buying spree yesterday and picked up the following: Half a Life by V.S. Naipaul, a book I devoured completely by yesterday evening, delightful in some parts, but leaving me with a sense of incompletion (more reviews); Thomas Friedman’s longitudes and Attitudes, which should be easier to swallow than From Beirut to Jerusalem (which I also own), seeing how it is a collection of short columns before and after September 11; lastly, Aung San Suu Kyi’s book, Letters from Burma.
Respectively, then, I’d be reading the works of a Nobel Prize winner for Literature, a three-time Pulitzer Prize winner, and a Nobel Peace Prize winner. Good stuff they have at Borders’ 3 for 2 section.
Just as importantly, I finally purchased my own copy of Lord of the Rings. A neat boxed set. Now before you start screaming at me, “WHAT?! You mean you’ve NEVER read Lord of the Rings? What have you been doing with your life?!” Let me explain.
When the first movie came out, I told my mum: “Maybe it’s time I bought the book.” As a child, I had resisted her attempts to make me read the Hobbit, because it started off by sounding really boring and therefore I believed the rest of Tolkien’s books would be the same. But the movie rocked. So maybe the Lord of the Rings book wasn’t so bad after all.
“Don’t buy it, I have an old copy somewhere,” came the reply.
The second movie was out. I repeated my intentions. I was promised that the book was around somewhere in our house, and I kind of knew it would be a waste to get my own copy. So I waited.
We’ve moved out, and the book is nowhere to be found. The third movie is going to show soon. I decided to buy my own copy. Mwahahahar.