Avarice - Part one, Short story

[Bassim]

Please, would you proofread my short story.

I have loved books since the time I learnt to read. I still remember my first book. It was a collection of fables written by an Russian author whose name I have forgotten many years ago. It was beautifully illustrated with the drawings of different animals like tigers, lions, giraffes and apes and simply written so that I could have understand every meaning. I kept it in my hands like a sacred book and would have never touched it without first washing my hands properly with a soap. It stood on the shelf and I would take it and read it again and again. The first book is like a first love; one cannot forget it to the last day of one's life. That book has taken such an important place that I cannot remember the next books I got after that.

However, once I got in love I was like obsessed. I did not care about clothes like the majority of the people of my age, I did not want records nor did I collect posters of my favourite rock stars and actors. And I was too shy to approach girls and kiss their rosy cheeks. When they quarrelled in my family I would close the door of my room and disappear in the security of the pages searching comfort in the characters who often went through more terrible ordeal then myself.
Later, when I wanted to be a film director I used to take the night bus and travel more than six hours to the capital Belgrade just to buy film books in the only film bookshop in the whole country. Thirsty and hungry I walked the dusty streets of the big city, but I was happy because I carried in my bag Sergei Eisenstein's, Rudolf Arnheim's and André Bazin's books. Within years I had a nice library consisted of philosophy, art, literature, photo and film books. I walked around with only two pair of trousers and one pair of shoes but I was satisfied because the shelves of my library were bursting with treasure.

Then one day, the war broke out and our neighbours forced us to leave everything we had possessed. Later, journalists describing this phenomenon would use the word ethnic cleansing to keep order in their reports from the Balkans' cauldron. Thus, my books probably ended up in a wood stove where they were used to keep the room warm and for cooking. I can imagine that the first victims were thick works of Georg Wilhem Fridrich Hegel and Plato as well other Greek philosophers which were used to boil eggs, potatoes and simmer a soup.

When I came to Sweden I noticed that this country had been bursting with books. The Swedes did not fight a war the last three hundred of years and they could have in peace and quiet collected books from all part of the world. I remember entering a charity shop and my shock when I saw the walls, tables and floors cluttered up with books. They must have been thousands of them in all kind of format and size, from thin pockets to thick and heavy books about painters and architecture. I felt I had come to book paradise.

To be continued..

[lilsexy_3c@hotmail.com]

its nice im encouraged to read the ending

[tzfujimino]

I'm not a native speaker of English, so I can't proofread. I'm really sorry.
But I can feel your love for books.
I think it's a great piece of work.
Keep up the good work!

[Bassim]

tzfujimino

Thank you very much for your support.
Have a nice day!

[RonBee]

I have loved books since the time I learnt to read. I still remember my first book. It was a collection of fables written by an Russian author whose name I have forgotten many years ago. It was beautifully illustrated with the drawings of different animals like tigers, lions, giraffes and apes and simply written so that I could have understand every word. I kept it in my hands like a sacred book and would have never touched it without first washing my hands properly with a soap. It stood on the shelf, and I would take it and read it again and again. The first book is like a first love; one cannot forget it to the last day of one's life. That book has taken such an important place that I cannot remember the next books I got after that.

However, once I got in love I was like obsessed. I did not care about clothes like the majority of the people of my age, I did not want records nor did I collect posters of my favourite rock stars and actors. And I was too shy to approach girls and kiss their rosy cheeks. When they quarrelled in my family I would close the door of my room and disappear in the security of the pages searching comfort in the characters who often went through more terrible ordeals than I did.
Later, when I wanted to be a film director I used to take the night bus and travel more than six hours to the capital Belgrade just to buy film books in the only film bookshop in the whole country. Thirsty and hungry I walked the dusty streets of the big city, but I was happy because I carried in my bag Sergei Eisenstein's, Rudolf Arnheim's and André Bazin's books. Within years I had a nice library consisting of philosophy, art, literature, photo and film books. I walked around with only two pair of trousers and one pair of shoes but I was satisfied because the shelves of my library were bursting with treasure.

Then one day, the war broke out and our neighbours forced us to leave everything we had possessed. Later, journalists describing this phenomenon would use the word ethnic cleansing to keep order in their reports from the Balkans' cauldron. Thus, my books probably ended up in a wood stove where they were used to keep the room warm and for cooking. I can imagine that the first victims were thick works of Georg Wilhem Fridrich Hegel and Plato as well other Greek philosophers which were used to boil eggs, potatoes and simmer a soup.

When I came to Sweden I noticed that this country was bursting with books. The Swedes had not fought a war for three hundred years and they could live in piece and quietly collect books from all over the world. I remember entering a charity shop and my shock when I saw the walls, tables and floors cluttered up with books. There must have been thousands of them in all kinds of formats and sizes, from thin pockets to thick and heavy books about painters and architecture. I felt I had come to book paradise.

To be continued..

You could also say:

forced to leave all our possessions.