Slam the door; turn the key; close the transom; roll the bureau in tight and stack the chairs on top. My on-hand reading is full and even with a strict yoghurt diet I’ll never outlast the shelves of books and the digital jungle of novels, short stories, poetry, and an essay or two or two thousand. I’m done. No more books.
Do you think the publishing houses will honor my demand?
Drat! What if I read on-line or in the Post or hear a recommendation on Twitter? Should I resign from all social media? Should I cancel the Post? Should I sell my computer? If I disappear will Apple Books survive me?
There are just way too many books out there that are flashing big bright “Read Me!” signs. I have dedicated myself to going back for those classics and well-received contemporary books that have escaped my reading lists (or disappeared under a covering of dust and forgetfulness). But then I hear about a new and exciting title and my urgency juices start to flow causing Henry James and Émile Zola to slide back behind Clarissa and The Good Soldier Svejk.
Realistically, I could be sixteen years old and the number of books I might want to read still would be daunting .. well, yes and no .. when you’re sixteen the idea that you won’t live forever is never considered. Can I get Dad’s car on Friday night? Will my cow-lick ever lay flat? Is that a zit on my nose? When your brain is full of important questions like those, who has time for mortality?