The winter is over, and Proust’s masterpiece is back in Motovun. I just took it out of its Samsonite pouch and leafed through it absentmindedly (“Proust, Samsonite,” July 5, 2012). When will I find the time for one of my favorite books? Will it have to wait until the next winter in Zagreb? Not willing to push these questions too far, I gently placed the book on top of a tall pile on the dining table. All of these books are waiting for their turn, it goes without saying. Patanjali, Alberi, Sallust, Austin, Milne, Yogani, Franzosi, Judt… Even a copy of the vulgate is in the formidable pile. Overcome by nothing less than remorse, I looked the other way. Would that I were a few decades younger, for the pile would then strike me as perfectly manageable. Now I know that it is not, for I have read all the books on my dining table at least once. And some of them I have been reading over and over again ever since childhood.

Addendum (May 11, 2017)

Having come across this piece on one of my uncharted journeys through my writings, I immediately checked the pile on my dining table. Has it changed much over the last three years? To mu surprise, it has. And how. Although all the authors listed in the piece are still there, forever on offer, the list is considerably longer: Nietzsche, Eliade, Lovelock, White, Homer, Attali, Adorno… By implication, the pile must be considerably taller, as well. That is, that much more formidable, as the title itself suggests! At any rate, I do hope that there will be no surprises so many years later. Enough is enough. Books are for the birds, my own included. Well, my own especially.