I can never willingly or unwillingly give my books away unless I'm really forced to. And by really, I mean really really forced like with a gun on my head, and I'm a minuscule step away from falling off the cliff with huge gigantic ugly rats on the bottom of the cliff waiting to kill me with their disgusting squishy body on the rare chance that I did not die from falling off the cliff. Or in a more normal and less dramatic scenario: when I moved and even then the books that I'll give away are the books that I'm really not interested in anymore (which is very few btw). Why you may ask. Because there are times when before I go to sleep I'll head over to my bookshelf and pick a random book to reread. After picking whatever book that my mood dictates, I'll then curl up on my bed and skim through the said book again. Pure unadulterated bliss I tell you. And it is during moments like this that I'll mentally categorize the books and authors into great, okay and so-so because to me, a great book is the one where when you read through the book for the second, third or fourth time and your breath still hitch at how beautifully written the words are and you're reminded again why you love that book so much; that for me is the definition of a great book and an author who is able to wove an awe-inspiring story with beautifully and thought provoking words will automatically be hail as an amazing writer too. And then I'll wish really hard that someday I will be able to write as beautifully as those had before me.
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