There isn’t a book of fiction, theory or non-fic narrative that I like and find too embarrassing to admit. This, however, is a different story altogether. ‘Belief’ is a much abused (and rather murky) word in our time, and I won’t be murdering anyone for being born in the wrong month; but zodiac personality analysis does happen to be one of my favourite pastimes. It’s a subject I broach cautiously into conversations, only after assessing the other person’s level of tolerance for such. I am deeply defensive of the habit, less of the system itself than of my complete right to believe in it as long as I keep my faith to myself. (I.e. Go mind your own business, now.)
It all began with this book, which I did not buy for at least four years since I started maniacally reading it, borrowing it in turns from different people for the sheer mortification of being caught owning such a book. The copy that I finally bought last year has already become well-thumbed, along with my copy of Love Signs. I will un-approve all snide, disapproving, preachy comments to this post. Bye bye.