Andrew has a journal with every book he wants written in a neat list. The other morning he showed me the next list – about 60 books.…. can I please find them…?
He reads history.
But now he has added John Steinbeck, Franz Kafka, Sigmund Freud, and Solzhenitsyn, and he almost shouts. ‘There’s so much. So much. It’s so great. Where’s my glasses?’
He turns around in circles as he speaks, checking the other shelves, forgetting about his glasses.
He says, ‘My God, that’s Brubeck you’re playing. Good for the mind.’
His glasses are in his hand. He puts them on and stacks up his books to carry out.
I caution him. He tends to read as he walks.
Outside, some young men are walking past, leaning forward into the wind, moving fast. One of them is yelling to the other:
‘I’m not saying the footy oval, I’m not saying that…’
Andrew, eyes on Kafka, moves gently in front of them. They look up, surprised, and part abruptly to let him through. They resume.
‘It’s not the footy oval, it was the other way….’
Artwork by Victor Vasarely (1906-1997)
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