Sunday, June 23, 2019


I am a voracious reader and summer is when I come into my own, with time enough to read at least five or six books a month.   All year long, I keep a stack of books to be read.  I build it like a wall to protect against the anxiety about the prospect of "nothing good to read" a terrifying notion that has never actually materialized.  A reckless joy seizes me when summer arrives.  I travel everywhere with my book, eager for quiet moments that I can fill by reading.  

I seek information from other trusted readers, especially lists of happy books, because I prefer that kind of story.  All year long, I add to my pile of books-to-be-read, mixing history and biography with fiction and especially collecting the titles of books which combine the two.

When I finish a particularly good book, I like to savor the quiet in my mind when the last words have been read.  I don’t feel loss because I return to good books as a sort of reader’s reunion, picking up time with the characters of a pleasing story whenever the mood strikes.  Even so, a first reading is always special and there are invariably moments as the number of pages remaining dwindles that I think about slowing my pace.  But I don’t really slow down.  Instead, I scan my bookshelf and select my next read, a talisman against the ending of my current book.  

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