For a long time I’ve been reading one book. It’s been five years since I started In Search of Lost Time, and I’m only two-thirds the way through.
That’s fine with me. Each month as I sit down, pen in hand, back straight, at a table—never in bed, on the train, or at the beach—I find myself lost in the mind of a possessive, brilliant young man as he himself is lost in vistas, parties, and his own memories. When I come out on the other side of 50 pages, I’m in a world transformed.