With the enthusiasm and single-mindedness that often propel us (arid render us insufferable) when we're 20, I began such a project. At the end of two months, I looked back over my entries in despair. There were at least as many Agatha Christies as there were Faulkners or Dos Passos. And when I cast my mind back to try to remember particulars of each book without referring to the brief annotations I had made, I found I could more often remember whodunit than exactly what stately, plump Buck Mulligan was doing coming down those stairs.
My literary sins had caught up with me. All my purchases at the campus bookstore (a copy of Murder at the Vicarage coyly peeking from under Absalom, Absalom) had been faithfully recorded to my shame. The project ended in disgrace.
Glashow refused to cooperate with the project, and in doing so, turned in one of ...
