Upon walking by a dusty shelf in an even dustier bookshop, tucked away on the main street of a town in country Victoria, a small book with the author’s name of Wordsworth grabbed my attention. It was pale covered and it’s pages had gone brown and stiff and felt ready to tear at the wrong turn of a page. It’s part of the reason why I bought the thing, the other being how certain books just happen to look up at you when you’re walking by, signalling something inside you to go ‘that one’. Wordsworth isn’t someone I fancied reading any time soon, but he is worth the buy I suspect. I purchased several other books that day, Ibsen. Today I happened upon Memoirs by Yeats. I like Yeats, a lot, but wasn’t sure on reading his memoirs. So Lolita came home with me instead.