Why the Best Choices Are Often the Ones We Make Ourselves
The Book I Chose for Myself There was a time when I did not enjoy reading books. Reading felt less like discovery and more like duty. I read because something had been assigned, because another person believed a particular book was important, or because completing it was expected of me. The words entered my eyes, but they rarely entered my life. Then an ordinary visit to a bookstore changed my relationship with reading. I had not gone there searching for anything in particular. I simply wandered among shelves filled with history, philosophy, psychology, business, biography, and stories from lives far removed from my own. One book quietly caught my attention. I cannot remember whether its title, cover, or subject first drew me toward it. I remember only that I wanted to open it. I read a few pages and decided to take it home. That evening, I continued reading because I wanted to know what came next. No one had assigned the book. No one would test me. There was no reward for finishing it...