If you had seen me yesterday afternoon, sprawled on the chaise longue with a book, you would have thought I had thrown in the towel. And you would have been wrong.
The book, Witold Rybczynski's My Two Polish Grandfathers: And Other Essays on the Imaginative Life, had been sent to me to review. So, though I looked pretty listless, I was working. (You would have seen me taking notes.)
Though reading is an inseparable part of writing, writers often feel guilty reading. At least in the middle of the day, when we should be writing. But you can't write a review without reading the book (though some have tried).
So yesterday afternoon, in the quiet of the apartment. I read with a wonderful feeling of dutifulness, and an absence of self-reproach. I covered 100 pages, which means I can do the same thing today. If only I could make a living reviewing books (and never have to write the reviews).
