Past couple of days haven’t seen me reading a single paragraph. (I did, however, listen to an audiobook, for the first time… I will get back to this on some other occasion, maybe). The hiatus certainly has something to do with an ongoing Chamber Music Festival and my youngest sister’s coming back from vacation, but the true reason lies in the reading itself, that is – in reading too much, starting too many books.
A few weeks ago I began re-reading the second part of Little Women but due to my anxiousness to peek into the Book Fair purchases I left it waiting and took Sei Shōnagon. After reading only a few pages I suddenly felt the urge to read Saint-Exupéry’s Wind, Sand and Stars first – dark blue cloth hardcover with golden letters was simply too hard to resist. I did finish it. As well as Moominsummer Madness, which nonchalantly jumped right into this tangle. But then, instead of going back to Alcott or Shōnagon, I grabbed Johan Bojer’s Guilt from the shelf and was just about a half way into it (again) when I borrowed Dear Theo, Van Gogh’s letters to his brother. I put these aside too, for Alan Jacobs’s The Pleasures of Reading in an Age of Distraction caught my attention. I was half way through it when I noticed I was forcing it… I made a mess, I had to admit.. I tangled myself in too many
I made a mess, I had to admit. I tangled myself in too many texts. It is not that none was appealing enough to hold my attention. Quite the contrary. I could not focus on one because I opened them all and let their voices out and now they’re all calling for me…
Instead of biting my way through branches I decided to wait for them to loose the grip, to give myself another day or two and then resume the relationship with the one that proves itself the most persistent.