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The pile of books next to my bed is so wildly awesome-dense at the moment that I am probably racing through Kafka on the Shore and The Toughest Indian in the World at paces rather faster than the reflective reading pace I owe to the quality of the books. But there are only so many hours in the day! And only so many of those can legitimately be spent reading!
I feel like I'm eight years old again and trying to read fifty books for the MS Read-a-Thon so that I can win the mini basketball hoop. (Those who know me well will likely realise that this had more to do with winning than it had to do with any particular desire of mine to actually own a basketball hoop.)
I feel like I'm eight years old again and trying to read fifty books for the MS Read-a-Thon so that I can win the mini basketball hoop. (Those who know me well will likely realise that this had more to do with winning than it had to do with any particular desire of mine to actually own a basketball hoop.)
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(I read The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles last month and am still not sure whether I liked it or not. Or whether I want to read more Murakami or not. I need advice!)
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