دانلود رمان انگلیسی “دستم را بگیر”

When I was a little child, I could squeeze between the tiny bookracks where no books would dare find a space, with my favourite Roald Dahl book, and stay there till the end of Dad’s shift, away from the bullies, protected from people who didn’t appreciate books—I have grown up sitting in such secret places. In the last decade, I have gained inordinate height, though my weight has remained constant, making me resemble a praying mantis—tall, gangly, awkward and strange with spectacled eyes. Mom thinks I am beautiful. Today, I sit in the corner, almost embarrassed, my extraordinarily long legs folded awkwardly under the chair as I read my favourite Henner Jog book for the thirteenth time this year. The table I sit on is engraved with the names of my favourite authors and poets and lines from books I have read. When younger, I would scratch out the name of every book I would read with a compass. I stopped when I realized that all books, like all writers, aren’t equally good, and Dad slapped me and told me that I wasn’t supposed to destroy library property. The word ‘destroy’ stuck in my head—and I wondered if by engraving names of books and writers that I didn’t actually like any more or would recommend anyone to read, would destroy anything. Now, I use permanent markers, which are anything but permanent, and I continually remove the names and the writers I wouldn’t want anyone else to read.