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.