As much as I like to read, I balk at books that have more than 300 pages. It seems an impossible task–a steep climb that will never reach the summit. I’m the kind of person who goes to the end of the book and reads backward, as if by doing so I can grasp the essence of the text with minimum effort.
It’s restlessness, wanting to eat a full meal without taking the time to properly digest everything. It’s anxiety, being locked into a single volume for an indefinite period of time. It’s the fear of commitment, wanting to read everything but unwilling to sit down for one. After I work out all my neuroses I might just be able to read a book.
