I am was propped on a bed at my maternal grandfather’s place. I struck a lottery when I found for novels stowed away in a corner of a cupboard.
There’s Arthur Hailey & Sidney Sheldon apart from Mitch Albom. Unfortunately, the edges of the first fifty pages or so of Hailey’s first novel (guess which one?) have been munched away.
But that’s okay. I still have the others. I feel like hugging all these old books with their yellowing pages and cracking spines with all the strength in my arms. Books are such absurd things; they enchant despite shoddiness that time slaps from cover to cover.