i went to the library over my lunch hour today. i love to read. i didn't "recreational read" on any regular basis until after college. i can't say i've been a completely voracious reader since then because who can do any hobby voraciously for 20 years without turning it into a career? but, i dive in on occasion and frequent the local library on a regular basis. and i'm not one of those people who can work on two books (or more) at the same time. but i'll read all the quotes, and prologues, and appendices ad nauseum (literally, cover to cover).
i can think of only one book i've given up on (wow, that has got to be poor grammar): "Founding Mothers" by Cooke Roberts. nothing happens. it was given to me by my mother-in-law. good intentions, but what does it say that it is the only book i can't bring myself to finish?
i just dropped off John Grisham's "The King of Torts." i used to refuse to read John Grisham because he was so prolific (i know that makes no sense but i'd rather be in the minority, not mainstream, whatever). that didn't stop me from reading Stephen King or James Michener, so i guess i finally gave in, but years after everyone else did. "A Painted House" was wonderful. "Skipping Christmas" was enjoyable. "The King of Torts" had a stupid, flat ending. it was a fun read, and i was able to escape into the world of lawyers, insurance companies, and tort reform. it kept me going to the end, where it just kind of stopped. like when you get to the end of a moving walkway ... you're just at the end of a moving walkway. there might be another moving walkway ahead, or maybe not, but there is no climax or closure at the end of a moving walkway.
i failed to mention i dropped off three books, and picked up another two. i can't wait to crack one open before bed tonight. perhaps it is the anticipation of the escape? it truly is a selfish pleasure that is not frowned upon or judged. it's a good feeling.
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