Sitting in a chair and reading a book is a little like doing the dishes. People respect you for it. And they leave you alone. For me, being left alone is one of life's highest pleasures. It's the reason I do the dishes.
Like so many people, I've been caught up lately doing everything except reading: stacking wood, studying Russian, buying screws and pizza shells, watching British murder mysteries, doing the dishes.
But this weekend I picked up a book to read strictly for pleasure. Bill Bryson's book about Great Britain, Notes from a Small Island, was waiting quietly for me on a coffee table, and I picked it up. I have now been transported to another land, in more ways than one. I had almost forgotten the sheer joy of reading.
It's a crowded little island, Great Britain. But how wonderful to be there all alone.