It was a home chore that was staring me in the face for a while now. A film of dust had been sitting pretty, especially on the big daddies; the heavyweights, hardbound reference titles that are respectfully brought down from the highest section as they happen to be my go-tos while working on research-backed news stories. Face-masked and adequately equipped with dusters, I began revisiting my old, middle-aged and new-age friends on the bookshelf.

The reference gurus got first priority due to their size, far-reaching position and age. Many, if I might correctly estimate, have been around for nearly three decades, purchased from those wonderfully tempting offers by Reader's Digest that most bibliophiles of a certain vintage would rarely miss or from Fort's sidewalk secondhand sellers. A few lighthearted years of college came racing back, too; thrillers like Papillon and Leon Uris's wartime reads used to be consumed with a lot of intent. I had also treasured priceless classics from English literature lectures, from Brontë and Tolstoy to Poe. I was happy to reacquaint myself with two of my all-time literary heroes Heathcliff (from Wuthering Heights), and Anne Frank.