Random Paper
So today is my
Eichmann in Jerusalem/essay writing day. My copy of this book is borrowed from the York Library (and is actually the second book that I've taken out to read for this essay. The first, Frankl's
Man's Search for Meaning, would have been much easier for the purposes of this essay, I think, but someone else from my class put a hold on it and stole it away from me. Goddamn.) As much as I dislike finding library books full of other people's scribbled notes and highlighting, I do enjoy finding random bits of paper between the pages. Bookmarks, obviously. In this one I've just discovered a long, narrow strip of white paper with all its corners rounded, on which is written "Beautiful Garden, Stunning Bush".
Why is it that such random things have the power to make me happy?
