I have no time to read

I didn’t used to believe it when authors told me they had no time to read.  Now I do.

It is rare that I read something for pleasure alone.  I do tend to leave hard copy fiction in the bathroom to aid those digestive processes.  I have a PDF copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel , which I read on my iPod when on the bus or when waiting for a doctor’s appointment.  Since I’m working on a cookbook, I read other cookbooks when I eat.

Books have been my companions through lonely times, Wagnerian depressions, ill health and hospitalizations.  They have also embroidered the pleasant parts of my life, adding to the excitement of travel and smoothing the way to sleep.

Last night I was reading a book.  It was a Phillip K Dick book, always a good match for the mental state of migraine.  I was two pages from the end when I started falling asleep.

I needed those two pages.  I wanted to see what twist Dick would use to wrap it up, and feel the emotion that his ending engendered, even if it was disappointment this time.  And I could not keep my eyes open.

Finally I let myself drop off in the chair and stayed there until 2am, whereupon I read the last two pages.  Satisfied, I went to bed.