A sense of who I am remains submerged; personality buried. I am always surrounded by the books of others, rarely by my own. The house I inhabit, the place I call home, the place that is home, is full of my dad’s books, numbered around 3,000. My own books are mostly in boxes, the majority beneath my bed. I delve rarely as I know not what box has which books. Seeking desired titles can be a fruitless undertaking. Earlier this week I gave it another go ans struck gold. In every box I opened I found volumes that warmed my heart. Interestingly it was the nonfiction, mostly, that struck me. I found amongst other things:

• Encyclopedia of Science Fiction
• Encyclopedia of Fantasy
• Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase & Fable
• Documents in Renaissance and Reformation History

I even found both my copies of Solaris, at long last I may get to read it. I’d bought a second forgetting I had it already, then lost both of them in the packing. Finding books is sort of like finding memories and a little chunk of me has returned.