There’s a stack of books by my bedside. I suspect they accumulate there while I’m out of the room. How am I going to read them all? Friends thrust books at me. Of those, I’ve enjoyed Divine Justice by Joanne Hichens, Six Fang Marks & A Tetanus Shot by Richard de Nooy and The Art of Walking by Marguerite Osler. But the books I love the most come from second-hand bookshops. Some “finds” have been loved to pieces and require restoring. Finding collectables like Teapots and Quails by Edward Lear or John Galsworthy’s The Forsyte Saga gets me dancing right out of Oupa’s Bookshop in Kleinmond, where I live. I’m addicted to all illustrated books by Edward Ardizonne, and wild about my signed copy of Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak.
This brings me to my current read by another wild thing – Kenneth Williams, actor, comedian and one of the great letter writers of modern times. Edited by Russell Davies, The Kenneth Williams Letters contains the thoughts and emotions of an outrageously funny, complicated man with a stabbing wit. Reading them shakes the bed. “You must be reading something very funny?” mumbles my wife, and goes back to sleep. It is very funny. And very rude.
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