I take three books on holiday, the first one to find out about the place I’m visiting, the second one to escape, the third one to read something I’d always wanted to read.
When I’m reading the first one, a guy in a cafe tells me it’s a bit out-of-date now, no one would read it if they seriously wanted to know about the Balkans.
When I’m reading the second one, a woman sits down next to me with something prize-winning in her hand, and tells me how it’s so much more worthwhile than any airport thriller.
When I take the third one out of my bag on a bus, a girl from Sweden tells me she thought only pretentious people read Dostoyevsky, was I pretentious?
On the way home I go to a bookstore in the airport, and try to find something up-to-date, prize-winning and completely unpretentious.
I leave with nothing.