Readers with a finite reserve of patience tend to exercise a policy of non-exclusivity with their books. The linguistic bourgeoisie call it 'multi-tasking' and the blunt call it literary infidelity.I am guilty of straying ever so often. At present, I am doing the best I can to spend as much 'quality time' with the two books I'm reading (without raising so much as a whiff of suspicion). A seasoned bibliophile, like yours truly, eventually starts to believe that books are enigmatic creatures with exceptional powers.
It all started when I attempted to read 'Ulysees'. I remember abandoning that God-forsaken book to read 'For Whom the Bell Tolls'. I still haven't completed reading 'Ulysees'. I cannot bear to look at the James Joyce classic,lying on the shelf, laden with dust and neglect; while I slither by with another book.
The past few months have been filled with such acts of deceit. I read 'Three Men in a Boat'; followed by the simultaneous reading of 'Sons and Lovers' and 'Summer Moonshine'. I seem to excel in the craft of stealth and guile because I am currently reading 'Love' by Toni Morrison interlaced with pieces from 'The Brothers Karamazov' by Dostoevsky.
The result of all this 'two-timing' is a gigantic culmination of muddled opinions squirming to make sense.While Dostoevsky and Morrison excel in their portrayal of the human condition to fine precision; I cannot boast of the same precision when it comes to literary appreciation.
The crowning glory is that I'm not morose with guilt. I don't crave the time when I would take months to complete a novel because I wanted every syllable to sink in.They say 'Time and tide wait for no man'. I suppose it is now apt to say that 'Time, tide and Divas with books wait for no craft'!