Yesterday lunchtime, the sun was shining so I took myself for a walk past the University newsagent – a tiny shop which, by virtue of its location, stocks rather more esoteric reading material than the Tesco garage. And I picked up a copy of the New Yorker, where I read this article: “Buying a Cure”, about Kathy Giusti’s charitable foundation, whose goal it is to find a cure for Multiple Myeloma.
And I read some book reviews, which frustrated me, because I knew that I used to understand the literary allusions they were making. And I realised (not for the first time) that if you don’t use it (your brain) you do most certainly lose it.
FL has applied himself to reading “difficult” books since he got his diagnosis. At the moment, it is Darwin’s “The Descent of Man”. He woke me early this morning with a treatise on “the con of Christianity”.
But why should it take a terminal diagnosis to shake up our intellectual lives? When did I let my thoughts drift to the mundane and my reading slip into the realms of chic lit?
So last night, after completing the New York City Ballet Workout 2 (my first formal exercise in over a year, and a geographical coincidence which did not strike me at the time) I made myself a reading list.
I’m off to the library!