Every time I turn around, I find out about another book that I have to read. Most of them are old books too--by which I mean, written ten years ago or more. I'm not even trying to keep up with new writing. (Similarly, I've given up on getting ahold of new music.)
When I was younger, it used to make me sad to discover that certain of my favorite authors had been alive when I was born, and subsequently died. As if the fact that we had both existed simultaneously in this world would have enabled me to meet them or write to them or something. (Never mind that I might only have been four years old when they died, or that I've never actually written to a writer.)
But at this rate, I'm going to start being glad when good writers hop the twig. Then at least I'll know that the number of their works is finite. Not that I'll ever get caught up anyway: because they outnumber me. Damn them all.
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