I don’t have shelves at home that match the color of the cover. All the books are mixed up, like guests in the kitchen at night — new, old, worn out, gifted, returned. Every time I open the cabinet, I don’t see volumes there, but pieces of myself.

I don’t want to give a “list of ten” here — this is not a checklist. I’ll just tell you which books once took me by the hand and led me further.

I once read “Norwegian Wood” by Murakami. It was then that I first felt that loneliness is not an enemy. It can be gentle, like the rain outside the window.

Then there was “One Hundred Years of Solitude.” I took it with me on the train — I read it and laughed out loud. People on the other hand thought I was weird. But I didn't care — I was flying with the Buendia family.

Next — "Atlas Shrugged." Not everything there is mine, but I still carry one phrase with me: if you feel wrong, it doesn't mean you're wrong.

When I first opened "Women Who Run With the Wolves," I read slowly. I stopped after each chapter and went to drink tea. Because it was painful and easy at the same time.

"East of Eden" is a book that I finished reading under the covers, not sleeping all night. Then I looked at the ceiling and thought about how much we don't understand about ourselves.

Each of these stories is like a key. Some open the doors outward — to people, to events. Others — inward. And if I am asked what I will take with me if I have to leave everything — I will choose a couple of books. Because they are the ones that bring me back to myself.