Poorly sick

Not well.

I have a headache which won't go, a sore throat which means my voice has turned into a comic parody of itself and other unpleasant symptoms of some unspecified lurgy. I'm feeling tired and have been intermittently asleep for most of the day (sunburned neck as a reminder)

Which, if the copious quantities of medicinal honey, rum and lemon doesn't send me for sweet dreams, means I'll be awake all night. Ho-hum.

I'll end up reading.

Good job I have a fairly large collection of books to choose from then.

There are a few favourites which I go back to time and again, some of them giving a little more with each reading, familiarity persuading them to give up more secrets and meanings, releasing more of the author's personality and humour, more of the book's 'message'and ultimately enhancing the pleasure as I
explore more and discover little secrets of enjoyment, in-jokes and foibles.

Others, and this is not an insult, give nothing more because they have nothing more to give, they laid themselves bare on the first reading, subtleties and subtext are not within their covers and they demand little of you for your satisfaction. That's not to say they're not enjoyable and I won't revisit them, sometimes familiarity and complete knowledge is pleasing, reassuring even. They almost always make for a satisfying read if for no other reason than you can choose one to match your mood and have your expectations met.

Of course, it's fun to discover new facets, explore new territory or feelings and, ultimately, much more satisfying than knowing how things will go each and every time but sometimes simple is good, there's no need to discover anything or explore new ideas and thoughts, sometimes easy is nice or even necessary.

I suspect tonight will be a night for a simpler book. Sleep well.

(Quick question, does around 600 paperbacks and 150 hardbacks count as a 'fairly large' collection?)