For about a year now, Magee’s Confessions of a Philosopher has been sitting on my nightstand, and I find myself wondering why I stopped reading roughly halfway through the penultimate chapter back then—though a more fitting question would be: why did I pick it up in the first place? What’s more, my shelves are lined with plenty of books that I’ve never even touched since I unearthed them in a secondhand bookshop—dust-gathering victims of my pretensions. Yet I remember a time when I used to devour books like madeleines on a porcelain plate (not literally, of course). I suppose, with age, I somewhat lost my sweet tooth. At least the dentist ought to be pleased.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 