I don’t feel like writing; only reading. Sorry. I finished Anna Karenina, the book that took me forever to finish, in late June. Since then I’ve been an insatiable reader. Tonight or tomorrow I’ll finish Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies. This week I’ve also finished After the Quake by Haruki Murakami and Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma. Sloane Crosley’s I Was Told There’d Be Cake was before that, preceded by Jonathan Lethem’s How We Got Insipid, J.M. Coetzee’s Diary of a Bad Year, Eric G. Wilson’s In Praise of Happiness, and Milan Kundera’s The Book of Laughter and Forgetting. In all, since finishing Anna Karenina in late June (the 20th, I think), that’s nearly eight books. And I haven’t been completely hermitous, either (just mostly hermitous).