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The bookshelves – books are stacked two-rows deep – are buckled and bent, some of the cheap laminate peeling and torn. Once we were aggressive and systematic readers, but for a decade now we’ve been assertive and discursive. A book by Bernarnd Baylin, a chapter or two of Nietzsche; a morning perusing the latest New York Review of Books, Claremont Review of Books, or London Review of Books; thumbing through journals like First Things or Common Knowledge; an afternoon of poking around Petrarch or Pascal; an evening browsing Kirkus Reviews or the JSTOR collection, or delicately peeling back the pages our small pile of 1920’s issues of The Atlantic Monthly. And then there’s all the mainstream stuff — Wired, The Economist, Foreign Affairs. There’s just too damned much to read, damn it. (Which reminds us: If you have time to read anything on this site, have not you time to be reading something better?) Homer nods, Prometheus is unbound, and everyone has a blog. Can you imagine de Sade’s blog? La Rochefoucault with Twitter? What if Poe had a word-processor? Imagine the staggering output of Melville or Aquinas if they had MSWord. Yikes. (Still reading? Welcome.)

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