Back in the fifties and sixties Michael was a very popular name for boys. Generally the very unscientific analysis of boys named Michael suggested either boys that were always getting into trouble or, later on, boys that whined a lot. My own experience with boys named Michael is a boy who grew up somewhat uneventful and now demonstrates his rebelliousness quietly reading Ezra Pound and Allen Ginsberg.
But almost without warning a new Michael is rapidly growing in the Gulf and heading right for my house.
One night after I’d turned off my reading light but not yet sunk into sleep, an uneasy feeling swept up my back. I was accustomed to the sweep of shadows along the walls as the train emptied its passengers and they marched by my windows and cars braked at the corner stoplight, but one shadow had stopped, its source blocking the stripe of light at the corner of my closest window.
The year is rapidly running down and soon I will have over 350 reading suggestions that make me panic. Time is running out. Sitting here in my office I scan the double files of books on my built-in bookshelves and realize that I will never read them all. Time is running out. If I stop and think about it, I’m torn between reading as many of the classical novels as I can fit in or concentrating on the more entertaining books that would probably be more fun to read.
The last couple of months I have been trying out various methods of selecting my monthly reading pool with varying success. Along the way I have accumulated a few tempting titles, generally new or recent books, and this month I included several in what might be a fun and enriching group of reading or, perhaps the shiny object titles will leave me disappointed.