Reading, for me, is entertainment and an escape from the real world. But it can also inform and stretch the boundaries of the life I live.
“That’s how Ptolemy imagined the disposition of his memories, his thoughts. They were still his, still in the range of his thinking, but they were, many and most of them, locked on the other side of a closed door that he’d lost the key for. So his memory became like secrets, held away from his own mind. But these secrets were noisy things. They babbled and muttered behind the door. And so, if he listened closely, he might catch a snatch of something he once knew well.”
So far, the writing is a lovely break from some of the crap that I’ve been reading, and the story is both sad and compelling.