I was on a roll back in January and February, reading books on the train at a clip of about one a week. My old pace. I used to read three and four books at a time. Then things, mostly theater, that selfish whore, encroached on my time and the books starting stacking up next to my bed.
But part of the problem was just finding a book that I like. With all the books you see when you walk into Borders or Barnes and Noble, you think finding a good book wouldn't be so difficult. But I've maintained that percentage-wise there is more crap in a bookstore than on television. Factor in the self-help books and the ghost-written "autobiographies" of not-so-talented but popular personalities and you'll see what I mean.
Sue handed me a book within minutes of my walking into her apartment this weekend. We both love to share books and music. She says The Secret History is a goodie. I just started it yesterday morning when I got up before Sue and was drinking a cup of coffee and sitting on the floor with old Bob. I read a little more today on the train. Set at a liberal arts college in Vermont and dedicated to Bret Easton Ellis, there's no doubt I'll be living with privileged, snotty, self-indulgent twerps for the next week.
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