It’s been an aggravating start to the week, in many respects, mostly because of one person I’m currently working with on a project who is both duplicitous and downright mean. But at some point today I realized that mostly my job involves reading a lot of books I really like. So next time I’m feeling overworked, I’m going to remind myself that if, when I was a kid, someone had told me I not only got to spend this much time reading books I’m interested in but that I got paid for it, I would have kissed them.
Still, when I spend this much time reading big-brained books, I come home feeling like I need to deflate my head before I go to sleep. Last night I woke up at 3:00 a.m. on the dot (a fact I could ascertain only by squinting very hard at the clock a few inches from my nose, because the irony of reading a lot is your decreasing ability to read at all without many mechanical aids) thinking about Things. Things require thinking about only in the dead of night. It’s as if after running myself ragged in a day, I need time to unravel it all, and once that happens, I sit bolt upright in bed and think more about Things. I know I am not alone in this, but at 3:00 in the morning, you tend to feel rather alone when it happens. And if you’re like me, you wish very much that there were really such a thing as a pensieve. Or, barring that, the next best thing: a glass of bourbon.