Four books arrived a couple of hours ago in the mail (along with Virginia boiled peanuts but that's another story) and I decided to put bookmarks in the books and place them here and there in my TBR pile. (Ok, piles, if you need to get pedantic.)
One book is the next Tony Hillerman. I've been reading my way through his Leaphorn Chee novels. A S Byatt's Peacock & Vine: On William Morris and Mariano Fortuny, a book I ordered long ago and forgot about. Gorgeous book, filled with enticing pictures. The Fellowship, a collective biography of J R R Tolkien, C S Lewis, Owen Barfield, and Charles Williams. I've been borrowing it from the library and then having to send it back for six weeks or more while somebody else had a crack at it and then borrowing it again and beginning again from where I left off - or perhaps from page 1 because I had forgotten what I had read. Now it's out in paper so I gave up and bought it.
And Rod Scher's Leveling the Playing Field, a book about trickle-down technology that I bought thinking I'd pass it along to my sister's husband's father. (The Chinese in their wisdom have a name for such a relative but alas we don't.)
Anyhow, When I went to place the bookmark on page one I encountered this:
Once there was a giant who lived in a cave. He was by all accounts a fairly gentle giant, and a peaceful, hardworking one. He mined the cave for guano - bat and owl droppings, mainly - which he sold as fertilizer to the farmers in the area around the cave.
. . . But without realizing it, Pieter [that was the giant's name] was digging up and selling history. . . .
How could I not keep on reading this?
And now you will have to excuse me because I have to get back to that book . . .