Imagine an addict who not only couldn’t get a fix, but hadn’t even an idea where a fix could be got, no matter how much money or time or how many henchmen they had to search for it.
Six to eight months of the year at least, I’m fine. I can happily dip in and out of my book stash and read for twenty minutes, or until it’s time to stop reading. I can get by on what I have. But I’ve got the shakes these days, and not a heady cure in sight.
Do you ever find yourself reading something and, although it’s perfectly pleasant and all that, and an adequate way to while away the hours—ever get that sneaking suspicion that it’s the literary equivalent of a prescription drug? You’re reading something that’s perfectly palatable. It cures some of your symptoms, but hardly ever gets to the root of the problem.
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