The Interrim

I was very pleased with myself the other night, because I finished Graham Greene's "The Quiet American". It had been one of those books I'd wanted to read for a long time, because it seems to come up from time to time (perhaps not among my friends exactly, but certainly in other sources of media), and I always hate feeling ignorant because I haven't read something or seen something like that. Finally I got to "The Quiet American", and I read it in reasonable time.

Often when I am reading, I have great enthusiasm at first that wanes through the midsection of the book and ultimately picks up again near the end. With this one, I remained engaged all the way through, and read from it most days until I was done. Routine is the key, I find. I was surprised at how quickly I got through it, although I ought to have guessed considering how relatively brief it is. Maybe I expected re-reading more in order to comprehend it.

As it was, I finished the book without my next book ready to go. I had reserved a book of memoirs by a ballet dancer, and it was a long way from arriving. I was too impatient to wait for it, and I did not have anything light like a magazine to keep me occupied until the new book arrived. I looked then to the bookcase where all my previously-read and still-unread books are. Really I should only be reading from that bookcase until I've read them all, but I always find myself wanting something new and unknown.

Well, I thought to myself that it would be at least a week before that new book even arrives at my local library branch, and I can let it sit there for a couple weeks more before I have to claim it, so that means I probably have something like three or so weeks to read something from my shelf. I looked over there, and the first thing that grabbed me was "Wuthering Heights". It's dense and full of flowery, antiquated language, but if I'm diligent, I think I'll manage it just fine.