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.
We used to have this book, and then someone whacked it from us. Ma was very attached to it, God knows why.