My brain has concocted a new anxiety template. I now dream I'm reading the books I can't manage to get around to while I'm awake. Last night it was The Translation of Dr. Apelles.
I took the new Jonathan Raban, unread, back to the library yesterday. Someday. . .
Sunday while S. was with his Spanish tutor, I made a quick walk-though at the bookstore across the street. I had to talk myself out of purchasing Kurt Andersen's Heyday, one of the newest additions to my wishlist: no new books for a couple of months, remember? I came home, placed a hold on it at the library, then, for good measure, placed holds on all the books being published in May or June that I'd been enticing myself with thoughts of blowing all my gift cards and coupons on: why not save the coupons until fall?
The Assault on Reason.
The Shadow Catcher.
The Yiddish Policeman's Union.
But I haven't read the stack of books I got for my birthday last fall. Nor have I read a single one of the books I got for Christmas. The neat stack of classics on the dining room table has disassembled into a messy pile of neglect.
Heyday was waiting for me at the library yesterday. I should read Lady Susan first. I'll continue on with Emma, but slowly since Heyday is 620 pages.
I want to read The Violent Bear It Away now that I've reacquainted myself with Wise Blood. I want to read Doctor Faustus before we see the play. I want to participate in Carl's Fantasy Challenge.
I want to read at least 20 other books before the next wave of library holds comes in but I know I won't have the time.
The game is fixed and yet I continue to play.
I just need to stop dreaming about it.