I do get into these moods, sometimes, where I’m bored by even the thought of reading. It’s frightening to me, actually, since it’s an article of faith for me that no matter a person’s mood, there’s always the perfect book to complement it. Furthermore, my general assumption is that if I can’t imagine what book I ought to read, then the book I ought to read is the one that I can’t imagine. Which always leads me to try to explore some literary avenue that I’ve never before evinced any interest in (today it was early 20th century French crime fiction).

But trying to find the right book is an exhausting and compulsive activity. Often it involves hours of browsing and precious little payoff. Probably it would be healthier to simply trust that my enthusiasm for books will come back in a few days. But that doesn’t feel right either. I don’t know. Emotions. They are unmanageable things.