All I do these days is pick up a novel, read the first few pages, chuck it by the side of my bed. I'd then feel guilty, reach under my bed for either Rumi, Keats, Ginsberg or the Rubaiyat (whichever I grab first) and read a poem or two. I'm a disgrace. I've left much too many books half-read. Way too many. When will this spell of disinterest end?
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