Are people still reading fiction? I love the smell and feel of an old book, the texture of the thing. There was something in holding an object with a past, present, and future, and it has vanished without eulogy. When was the last time you held a photo? If the world were a little quieter, I would hold a book open like I did when I was young, and an entire afternoon would crawl by like slow music.

This is a log of the books I’ve read. The ones marked with a green node have been formative. When I can, I write about them.