I love Belfast on New Year's Day. The streets are empty as are the cafes, and this is the day I reserve every year for browsing through my bookshelves and remembering old friends that I've read and can't give away. It was French poetry this morning: Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Verlaine. I'll probably move on to Dostoyevsky this afternoon.Work also has to get fitted in too of course, and I've already spent time in two hospitals. The hospital corridors are as empty as the streets outside. The atmosphere is calm and muted. Only the very sick have been held on to over the holidays. They all feel left behind.
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Alas, my book collection is boxed and lurking in my clothes closet. I must remedy that for the new year and get them back out where I can browse them.
That copy of Crime and Punishment is looking a little worse for the wear!
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