It is a singular sort of torture (as a linguist and a book-luster) to surround yourself with books that you can’t read.
I have wanted to read Philip Roth’s Everyman for some time, but I know that it would be pointless to get this copy (though some imp of the perverse still urges me to get it).
So why do I do this to myself? Because where else am I supposed to go? In the company of books, I’m always at home.
That having been said, I’ve compiled a list of bookshops that sell foreign language books; I intend to visit as many as I can whilst I’m here. I’m looking especially for translations of Hungarian literature.
So begins my quest.