After growing increasingly panicked at my seeming inability to finish any book I started, I decided to stop reading every one of the six or so books I was trying to read simultaneously, and moved on to one book, just one, and read that. Which book was The Crying of Lot 49, by Thomas Pynchon, and which was completed to my utter satisfaction. So I moved along to Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being, also finished.
So, relieved at the thought that I could still finish works of fiction, I appear to now be straying slightly again: Hermann Hesse's Beneath the wheel; Naomi Klein's No Logo; The Mathematical Universe by William Dunham; and Fictions, by Jorge Borges. Pathetic.
I think I had actually developed an addiction to books as objects; I'd buy armloads of them, line them up on my shelf, or next to my bed, or even, ridiculously, under my bed, and never read them. I've stopped buying, now I just need to curb my sporadic and aimless reading patterns. Bibliophiles Anonymous? |