Russell No. 3

The first was Russell Market:  memories of dark and damp, and of fruit and flowers. Of a sign that read "ANUS FLOWERS". Of pet shops that gave me the creeps, and frequently a sore throat. Lots of dirt and lots of people. I've long since left the first Russell alone.

The second Russell makes me feel warm all over. Some parts warmer than others. Oh, those sad soulful eyes. And those incredible mini-skirted thighs. Well, perhaps it wasn't a mini-skirt. I'm not sure what those things the gladiators wore were called, but Russell Crowe made them look gooooooood.

I was only five years old when Russell No. 3 died, and quite oblivious to the legacy he had left me. It took me 42 years to claim my inheritance, when I stumbled upon Why Men Fight in my neighbourhood library. I can only presume that the writings of Mr Bertrand Russell were being held in trust for me, until I was mature enough to appreciate them, and to experience them fully.

I love many books, and many authors. But very few of them speak directly to me, and those that do tend to be in poetry. Mr Russell's writing is no poem. It's solid, multi-syllabled prose. With some fiction, I can skip lightly through the pages. With Mr Russell, I wade slowly and carefully through each sentence. It's worth it. The treasures I've found! The treasures of his words, his thoughts, his theories, his ideas - I can't fully explain how deeply entranced I am. It's a bit like being in love! Everything reminds me of him, everything I see or read or hear is somehow connected to him now.

It's a wonderful adventure that I've only just begun. Is this just that usual inferno of lust that fizzles out far too fast? Or will it last? I think I need to spend more time with Mr Russell, and get to know him better before I jump into bed with him. Having said that, he is waiting patiently for me right now, on my bedside table.

So, impulsive lust or deep love? Only time and a whole lot of reading will tell. Oh, and guess what? I'm going to let you watch.