If I allow myself to think about it, I get quite depressed at the poverty of my reading of late. I find it difficult to believe I'm still slogging through Walden. Me and Henry David are just not simpatico somehow.
So I've been dipping into other stuff pretty much indiscriminately to relieve the strain: bits of Causley's Collected Heaney's Field Work, a few Stephen King shorts, a bit of Aylmer Maude's book on Tolstoy, and Karen's Sondheim books - having got the second as a belated birthday present from her yesterday. Fun, but not terribly satisfactory. No direction at all.
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