I’m surrounded by piles of books. They are thick and paper bound, written by people I’ve never heard of. Many of my books have yet to arrive in the mail, and they may not arrive for several weeks.
But at long last, I’m being told to sit down and read. I have no choice, but I submit willingly.
Katherine Mansfield’s short stories. Novels by Virginia Woolf. The Linguistic Structure of Modern English with all its little syntactical puzzles. The Art of Literary Research, a book about how to be a librarian, at which I’m already pretty proficient, but I could stand to be proficienter.
I have to read all of these books cover to cover by the end of the semester. I simply must.
It’s like I’ve died and gone to heaven.