I look at the second hand bookstall and wonder where these yellowed pages went wrong that their owner gave them away. These books stacked against each other wait for a new master; I wonder how many mishandled them. The dull cover, the yellowed pages, the wrinkled spine tell the tale of their loyalty and yet they have no home to be in. I wonder for how long they have been alone with their comrades at sale without the curious minds to unravel what they hold back. Which are the latest entries and the oldest one in the pile? How long does it take to attract another pair of eyes with the brightness of the cover page lost? Who would want to smell the browning pages and know whose thoughts lie in there to be read? I wonder if they have an inscription or some lines marked. Were they given up for a reason or couldn’t impress the buyer? Were the expectations much more or were they simply in wrong hands? Was Shakespeare too complicated for the brain that adapt...