I no longer trust the urge to classify. Still, now and then, a fragment or scene from a book returns with unexpected force. I wonder whether the books that occupy this not entirely mental space are the ones we might call favourites. Recognition does not always imply affection. One looks for patterns—certainly for narratives that hesitate, or seem unsure of their own necessity. Writing that maintains a distance, even as it draws you in. This evening I found myself circling the question of favourites again. New shelves arrive tomorrow. As I removed books from storage, I felt that familiar longing to discard all but what might be essential. Just a small shelf of favourites. King Lear, always Beckett’s “Trilogy”, no The Divine Comedy, yes Herodotus, yes The Lighthouse, no Proust, maybe Pilgrimage, probably My Struggle, yes Dickinson, yes Ulysses, no Tristram Shandy, yes Septology, no What endures in a long list of other works is something more elusive. A tone, perhaps, or a current of thought that bypasses intellect and settles somewhere harder to name. A voice that feels intimate. A world built not on detail but on atmosphere. With thanks to an eudaemonist.
