Many years ago, I frivolously told someone that I would only date people who read Saul Bellow. Why I ever said that is forgotten to me, I would have to be Shirley McClain and channel back to that moment to find out what led me to come out with something as shallow and as half-brained as that. All I know is that I did and for some reason, I can still remember the words.

Sometimes when the mood is on me and these words float back, I wonder if I dangled something out here a little too far and fate was n't just tempted, it took a good, long tug, and nearly upended me. Most of my relationships match the lifespan of a Mayfly: skittering madness, near vertical ascent of excitement, then abrupt disappointment heading in the other direction.

But dating is n't what I've got in mind for this post, it's shorter, sharper, sweeter. Does the choice of book indicate what kind of person you are? If Andy McNab's what you read on the commute to the office, then does that imply you're wannabe soldier of fortune and nothing else? You've got Bridget Jones's diary tucked on your knees, you're in search of Mr (Mrs) Right? Does Tolkien on the other hand, say beard, real ale and a degree in Earth Sciences? Only insufferable literary snobs read Saul Bellow? Do men and women stand in different corners of the room when it comes to choosing between Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre? On this last particular point, I'm a fully-trained man and I know where I stand: there's only one solitary neighbour I'll be troubled with. Call him Heathcliffe.

As it's probable you can infer someone's personality from their choice of reading material, it's equally likely that other people comfortably defy this expectation simply reading whatever comes their way. As long as there are words in a coherent sequence, it could be a car manual or the Bhagavad Gita, it's the words that matter. I'm in this camp. I need to have some words in front of me otherwise a day simply is n't a day.