Once, I couldn’t imagine that a book could hurt. But reading, like lovemaking, is among our most private of acts and that means vulnerability.
Like all secrets, a book is power. A page turns. You grow deeper into a bond you accepted with complicity. Pasts reopen. Words reveal all. I’ve loved women. And men. And I have had relationships with books that at best can be described as, “complicated.” At worst, mercenary.
A book will knife through you, open your guts and spill your blood without mercy. They are ruthless. The only point a book has to make to you, is that it exists. It is not unlike being in love with a narcissist. It will never be about you. You are relevant insofar as you make their existence the nucleus of yours.
When you close a book, your relationship ceases to exist. Your identity suspended, you have no choice but to return. How else will you ever matter?