Words weren't dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.
- Ch. 35, Ham on Rye, Charles Bukowski 

I started reading Ham on Rye last weekend, settling down in my favourite coffee shop while recovering from the night before. Somehow, reading Bukowski seemed the most logical thing to do on a day when you wake up still feeling drunk. I wasn't particularly enamoured of his writing style, but it's gradually grown on me over the past few days. He writes as if he's speaking directly to you. Everything is terse and concise (much unlike my way of writing and speaking) and it works. It's as if you and he are sitting at the same table in some smoky bar somewhere, and he's telling you his life story as you both sip bourbons.

I'm really glad I rediscovered the habit of reading this year. In part, it's got to do with having found a wonderful place which is warm and friendly and allows me to sit down and read without chasing me out, having found someone else here while sitting in that coffee shop who likes to read as well, even if we have different tastes, and having the time to go to my local library and just borrow books for up to three months.

And now, it's the Christmas break. I'm packing up to spend the break with my family, and need a couple of books to help while away the time. I love London, truly. But, during Christmas, it is most definitely the most boring place on this planet, family or no.