This journal began with Sartre’s meditation on reading:

“On the one hand, the literary object has no substance but the reader’s subjectivity… But on the other hand, the words are there like traps to arouse our feelings and to reflect them towards us… the work exists only at the exact level of his [the reader] capacities; while he reads and creates, he knows that he can always further in his reading, can always create more profoundly, and thus the work seems to him as inexhaustible… Thus the writer appeals to the reader’s freedom to collaborate in the production of his work.”

The first post ended with: “It is my hope to participate in a conversation about literature, narrative style and meaning, about how to read more profoundly and to discover fresh sources of inspiration”.

Have I met this goal? Partly yes, through exchanges with fellow readers. But there is frustration. The form encourages fragments, rushed thoughts. Rather than a leisurely fireside conversation, writing about reading often feels like snatched chitchat. Or worse: a monologue.

This space is not for book reviews. It exists to enable conversations about literature, to allow a voice to express thoughts about books, and to understand others’ thoughts about what they read.

Reading is never stable. What draws attention shifts with time. The marked page becomes a record of a particular moment, preserved but no longer present.