In winter, books were a refuge: a dense plot, a warm blanket, tea, the feeling that you were safe while it was blowing outside the window. I want something different in spring. Openness. A lightness that is not equal to emptiness. Books that you can read on a bench, distracted by the sun and passing birds.
At this time, for some reason, I am drawn to collections of essays, diaries, and short prose. To texts that don’t require memorizing all the names, but leave an aftertaste. Or vice versa — to poetry, which seemed too sparse in winter, but now it falls exactly into the rhythm.
Or maybe spring gives you the energy to finally overcome a romance that seemed too heavy in winter. And then you read without running away, but on the contrary — plunging, because you have enough strength for that.
Everyone probably has their own spring book genre. The one that cannot be explained by logic. It’s just “I want it that way right now.”
