There are books I read that sing in my heart.
Books I return to again and again; that I carry with me; that carry me. Books that end their lives: beaten up, torn down, weather-worn, frayed, ripped and destroyed; pages flaking out, corners turned up, covers worn away and binding undone; each leaf a mash of near-indecipherable notes, the entire text underlined, underscored, understood, and thoroughly digested.
Sometime around AD65 a Roman nearing the end of his days sat down to write the first of what was to become a continuing series of letters to a younger man. The writer’s name was Seneca – during his life: one of the richest men in Rome, an incredibly successful and critically acclaimed artist, and the power behind the throne during a window of time which has been described by some as ‘the finest period in Roman history’ – and…
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