There’s No Rush
When it comes to reading, I suffer from a deficit of attention. I say “suffer,” though I’m not sure I experience it as such. Scattered around my home—on my nightstand, on the coffee table, on my desk, on other flat surfaces here and there—are the various books I’ve begun reading over the past several months only to be pulled away by others or distracted by a periodical that’s come in the mail. Off the top of my head, I can count six books—three from my own shelves, three from the public library—that I have sampled to varying degrees over the past month or two, among them two novels, three collections of essays and a volume of poetry that I pick up at random wherever I happen to find it, only to inevitably offload someplace new. I’m not even sure where it is at the moment, but I know I’ll be delighted to find it again.
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