The Ink-Pot and the Palette

ravurian and his recs are actually the source of this post. He's urged me to read several good things and even threatened offered to mail me books (which I exhorted him not to do because that's just...ridiculously generous and unnecessary); and his recs are so apt and interesting that I feel utterly lame saying, "But I just don't read anymore."

I think long drives/train rides/flights are the last refuge of reading for me: times and places where there is truly nothing else to do. That sounds awful, because I don't experience reading as a terrible chore, and yet that's how I treat it: as the very last thing I'd ever do. There's some kind of cognitive dissonance here.

The hour before bed was always my best reading time (even if it did lead to three hours I should have been sleeping), and indeed here I am in the hour before bed, online and using it in exactly the same winding-down way that reading used to serve. Hm.

I hope you have a wonderful time at the cottage in Wales. That sounds so peaceful!