I own at home over a hundred books that I have not yet read. Some of
these books have been unread for years now. Despair at their still being
unread enters the realm of humor and then loops back around and becomes
despair once again.
Well, the coronavirus is giving me
a wonderful opportunity to work through the many books on my shelves.
Without the Library to check books out from, something which I did
constantly otherwise, I am forced, joyfully, towards my own books. Right
now I am reading China Mieville's October: The Story of the Russian Revolution, Susan Sontag's On Photography, and Ursula K. Le Guin's The Left Hand of Darkness. (And my last library book, Nassim Nicholas Taleb's Antifragile: Things That Gain from Disorder.)
I
will probably soon add a short story collection onto that. I like to
have four to five books going at any one time, and I've become so
accustomed to having a short story collection going alongside everyone
else that not having one feels strange.
It's a small,
small dent, but it's progress. Fantasy, science fiction, history,
biography, literary fiction - the gamut is run from end to end. I even
have a small comic/graphic novel (? not sure what the right term is)
called Marx for Beginners, which is delightful.
(This excludes the two dozen-ish eBooks that I have on my Kindle.)
I
have not left home in over two weeks now and we're soon coming up to
the third week. I should probably try and get some writing done, as well
- I plotted out a story inspired by a dream. I'm thinking it's at least
a novelette, but how will I ever know if I don't write the damn thing?
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