Once I enrolled in the Faulkner seminar, I eschewed reading for pleasure. I knew that feeding my brain with anything other than the required books would open me up to the temptation, release the floodgates, and damn-the-torpedoes-full-speed-ahead I'd be gorging on mystery series instead of plowing through early 20th century stream of consciousness blather.
(Yes, I had a hard time with Faulkner.)
But the class ended with one book still unread. The professor was correct - I enjoyed the lecture without having read the text. Her comments were generally Faulknerian, rather than specific to one volume. Since the characters fold over one another across the entire oeuvre, my lapse wasn't that big a deal.
And there's still that one book, un-returned to Little Cuter with his companions, waiting for a long lazy stretch of time. I missed the public library. I'm glad to have it back in my life.
I've finished one and am ready to start the second Lisa Scottoline lawyer-murder-mystery I seem to have missed since 2017.
I've devoured three issues of Smithsonian, whose long form articles have taught me about things I didn't even know existed.
Mary Higgins Clark teamed up with Alafair Burke to continue their true-crime-producer murder series, and even though I spent more time than I should've trying to see who wrote what, I enjoyed every page.
And that's just this week.
It feels good to be back to my regular life.
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