Goodbye Books

Starting to pack, first with the books. Putting them in boxes, reminiscing over the time spent with each. The idols, books of, and by, Gainsbourg, Birkin, Bardot. The French history section, absorbing the past in bed, yet a sidenote feeling like you only know a drop in the ocean, dreaming of a week in a beach house doing nothing but reading history. And eating and fucking. One day. The food books, Reichl, David, the pleasure of Bourdain. The allsorts of music, Jim Morrison, Motley Crue. Cinema, the brilliant biography of Bunuel by John Baxter. So much fashion, Chanel, Vogue, the essential Diane Vreeland. The joy of reading Zola. Travel in the form of Lonely Planet's blue spines, and other people's adventures. Osho, I'll take these with me. There are dictionaries and unread books, easing the strain off my Amazon wishlist. And cookbooks. I guess they must stay here, my new home will give me inspiration in the kitchen.

I'll take with me a few books, some I haven't read, and L'Etranger, it always comes with me.