The second-hand copy came into my possession as a Christmas gift; we all received pre-loved books that year. I felt cheated. The dreary paperback, bearing a detail from Edvard Munch's Agony on the cover, nevertheless found a spot on the bookshelf behind my pillow. That was years ago, when my bed head* doubled as a toy box and supported a bookcase.
Late at night — when sleep was being avoided, or avoiding me^ — I would pluck the book from the towering case, but I never ventured further than the author's biography on the first page. I suppose I judged the book by its proverbial, and wrongly assumed the translated plays were as dreary. The first page — returning to my earlier thread of thought — now bears my sister's mark of ownership: her name written in the top right corner. I foolishly relinquished the book to her at some point, although I prefer to think she, er, appropriated it. My sister always did have the annoying habit of crossing out my name in the books I owned, and adding hers in larger lettering. And yes, I'm still ever-so-slightly bitter about the fact.
The book of plays luckily re-entered my collection a couple of years ago, before my sister flew from the nest. Recently I had another look at it, and this time I ventured past Ibsen's yellowing biography; I finished the titular play within a couple of days. I regret feeling cheated by my uncle's gift. His lazy, cavalier, second-hand offering means more to me now than most (if not all) presents given to me by extended family members.
* As in furniture, not bad hair.
^ Feng shui adherents probably would've blamed any insomnia on the books residing over my (non)sleeping head.
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