It’s nice, after half a year or more of feeling, vertiginously, that I was no longer a reader, no longer had the attention span to slip between the covers of a book and lose myself in it, that my synapses had been rerouted by years of clicking and tapping and staring at screens and that I was getting to the age where it would make sense to start thinking of myself as an ex-, that I’d lived myself out of certain passions and into others instead of letting them accrete around me like rings on a tree — it’s nice, after all that, to pick up a book and find myself barreling along as if I’d been reading all my life.
Which I have, of course; two years out of thirty is not enough to make a man forget his home country.
