|A small, tempting stack at home.|
I get a little anxious thinking of all the books I'm never going to read. Ack. I need air. I want them, need them, would actually like to vacuum them up like crumbled Oreos, but no way is it going to happen. I'm doomed to plod through a book about every three weeks, that is if I am pushing (Roth's book is good right now). The clock is working against me. Oh, and sleep, I need a little shut-eye, too.
Today in Paper Moon Books on Belmont I acted willfully with another book, The End of the Affair, a Graham Greene novel that I've stuffed in my purse (after I paid for it). Wasteful retail therapy. It's not shoes for me, thankyouverymuch. I have a fear that someday someone who matters will ask me what I think of X author, and I'll respond with a dumb look. "I haven't read that writer yet." A completely shameful answer. I'll start practicing: "Is she the one who wrote (insert title)? Because that was a damn good book."
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