“His hand is growing cold, still she holds it”

“His hand is growing cold, still she holds it”

It takes a while, I’ve learned, to reclaim the rhythms of your reading life after it having been atrophied for so long—more so, infuriatingly enough, to maintain those rhythms. In desperation, you return to the kind of books you’re confident are yours, written with you in mind as the ideal reader. A desperation because, well, consider the existential crisis: After months of erratic reading—of rarely being able to immerse yourself in a book as you used to (and with an alarming yet deeply rewarding frequency)—I wondered what it was I really liked to read, and if it would be so easy to slip into them once again. [Continue reading.]