No clear idea why.
I feel as though I haven’t had the time when in actuality my bus rides, lunch times, occasional evenings, and weekend or two have remained free for it – I just don’t appear to be interested. (Not to mention the [potentially alarming] amount of Morse I’ve been watching.)
I want to read, but I can’t concentrate.
The Sellout (Beatty), Post Office (Bukowski) and A Dream of Ice (Anderson & Rovin) are just a few of the books I’ve tried to begin in the last month, none of them has got through to me. Normally I would adore them.
I’m having a conversation with myself, reading Alice and ‘please, I really don’t want to think right now Alice’, arguing about whether to read or not. No one needs two Alice’s in their head. No one.
The book-world in general has felt out of reach of late, as though I’m circling it in a daze. Thus, the blog has suffered this last year as well. I didn’t even know the new Ferrante was coming out until Saturday, what sort of way to live is that?