Complaining about boring football is a little like complaining about the sad ending of King Lear: it misses the point somehow.

I'm human. That's how humans spend their time, doing shitty things.

What harm has he ever done to you?' 'You know what harm he's done me. He offended me with his terrible taste.

The point is you keep going. You want to. So all the things that make you want to are the point.

Hard is trying to rebuild yourself, piece by piece, with no instruction book, and no clue as to where all the important bits are supposed to go.

Like all books that have that kind of momentum, it starts from word of mouth.

So this is supposed to be about the how, and when, and why, and what of reading -- about the way that, when reading is going well, one book leads to another and to another, a paper trail of theme and meaning; and how, when it's going badly, when books don't stick or take, when your mood and the mood of the book are fighting like cats, you'd rather do anything but attempt the next paragraph, or reread the last one for the tenth time.