Interestingly, I keep rereading The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night and À la recherche du temps perdu without any fear of being contaminated by the world, which is otherwise uppermost in my mind. It is as though the two books are already mine, already fully digested. But I am wrong about this, I am perfectly aware. Although I am rereading these books for who knows what time, they still harbor much that I have not digested at all. Given their bulk, they are actually impossible to digest in full no matter how many times I happen to reread them. Thus they are still dangerous. Nay, deadly. Ever so ready to contaminate every soul, the world is forever lying in wait in these books just like in any others, including those I have never touched, let alone read from cover to cover. But I know that this earnest warning is entirely in vain. I will keep rereading these two books no matter what. And the world will get me one way or another. Over and over again. Contaminated ever anew, I will never heed my own warning, either. For read I must.

Addendum (December 30, 2015)

I have already promised myself not to read anything else but The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night and À la recherche du temps perdu next year, and this warning is good to keep in mind in connection with my preparations for the upcoming winter months. No matter how familiar, these classics are still perilous. The world entire lurks behind them both. Nonetheless, I cannot imagine abandoning reading at this stage of my life. Not yet, at least. Given my treacherous proclivities, these two books are my safest bet, too. They are outright benign by comparison with books unread, let alone online newspapers of all descriptions. Whence my solemn promise. Yet another one among so many…