Books change perspective; their covers replace blinkers, their vocabulary expands speech, their characters befriend us. After Dickens, I try to appreciate the value of a person, to truly know them, to understand their history, and how their mannerisms, their gestures, resonate their victories and struggles. After Joyce, I try to value the single day, to know there’s a minute moment in every hour, and a second moment in every minute, if you look close enough. And, after Kafka, I try to savour existence. For the fly that lands on the sugar cubes, or on the aluminium lemonade can, I let him feast, on the smallest chance it’s another Gregor, hungry for the human life.