My bad habit is that I start reading a book and only rarely finish it without starting another book first. Just looking at my bedhead bookshelf alone, I can see five books that have been started but not finished, their bookmarks waving at me, like flags reminding me that I can never finish anything I start. I'm still half-way through Robert Shearman's Love Songs for the Shy and Cynical and still have an essay to write, but after kendo training last night I was feeling sore and miserable, so I had a hot bath with Mr. Stephen Fry. Well, with his latest autobiography, The Fry Chronicles.
Words cannot describe how much I love Stephen Fry. I've only got to half-way through the second chapter of The Fry Chronicles but Mr. Fry's gorgeous language shines through even just the introduction. His talent of organising words into the most poetic, colourful, amazing narrative is mind-blowing, and I can only wish that I could write half as well as he can.
Hopefully in the next weeks I'll have more time for baths and actually finish reading this book. I don't think I'll be able to stay away from it long.
-Elimonster
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