Swot Envy, Fifteen A Week!
I just read about a guy who averaged fifteen to twenty books a week. A week! I’m lucky to read two in that time and that’s having sped things up from about one every ten days. Granted, Lowell Lee Andrews, for that was his name, was on death row for slugging his family. Bullets: between sister’s eyes, then six in mum and seventeen into dad. No, I have no desire to kill my parents though I might have wished dad dead a few times too often for what he did or I thought he did (to be clear, not sexual). There’s a lot my parents did wrong but now I’m older, I acknowledge with some regret that they weren’t brought up perfectly either and being human they fucked up. The funny or serious thing is that they brought me up with a good moral sense and with the best education they could afford and that counts mighty plenty.
Yesterday, the email from the big chief upstairs announced impending headcount cuts citing the difficult economic environment blah blah. After the first wave of shock and fear that “this is it” (never been fired but there’s always a first time, right?) I slipped into a reverie: well, if I was laid off with a nice little sum on the side and on account of it coming up to Christmas and no one hiring, well, how many books could I read? Cold days spent in coffee shops getting warm and devouring the hundred fifty to two hundred unread books lying around and never diminished in three years, being acquired faster than they were read. The pleasure in buying a new book (paper mind you, not electronic) and flipping the pages is equivalent to a junkie on crack. Must be. Or is it? I’ve never been on crack but I have been (and still am) a book junkie. But fifteen a week! No, no, I cannot think like this! I will not murder and I do not want to be fired even for fifteen a week.