I do love books. To have, to borrow, to smell, to hold and, of course, to read. But mostly to have. And read, of course. But I like the presence of books in my home. Wherever that is. Well, maybe my home is where my books are. (After returning from Indonesia, some of the books are missing, by the way. So if any of my friends are reading, please check your shelves for intruders. Please.) So I do love books. We established that. I also like some books more than others. I am so sorry for some of the books I have, but that is true. I consider some books better than others. So, logically, some of them I consider worse than others. But maybe I will not talk about those. Well, to the point. I want to write about the book I consider the best. Not the best ever written, but the best for me. And even that is not true, because my opinion about what is the best/favourite book is as solid as the wind. And it depends on what I am reading at the moment (well, if you care so much, it is Teju ...
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