The queer man and his quilt

He was a queer man. He'd read books, but only a little of each, at a time. He was afraid of taking in too much of a good thing at once. Just as he was unable to detect the subtle flavours in a fine malt after having one too many, he feared the same would happen with words. He would start a book, read a few pages, savor every word and thought, and then start a new book, sometimes not even from the beginning. He wasn't curious; he was a gatherer. He gathered words and sentences and thoughts, much as a girl gathered flowers in a field; not to make a perfect bouquet but simply to satisfy her desire. He stitched a patchwork quilt in his mind, every square a masterpiece, the pattern appealing only to him - ever changing, ever expanding. Nobody understood why he read just so, and he never tried to explain. People said he was queer. He simply smiled and draped his quilt around him. He was always cozy and warm