Alright, I won’t mention any names, but I stand before you, guilty of having commit some serious infrations against some of the unnamed parties. These parties are books that, for whatever reason, mysterious perhaps even to me, I’ve raced through in reading. I confess that I did not read them as carefully as their authors may have hoped. I admit I my eyeballs flitted over the words and sentences, my fingers itched to turn the page, and my mind impatiently asked “how much more still to read?” I concede that for some books, it was more important to me to have read them than to be reading them.
Such crimes, such shame, such unavoidable tragedies. Perhaps I can seek excuses in my busy routines; after all, reading on a bus necessarily dicates that one stops reading when one’s stop comes up, and such disruptions may well result in poor absorption and a reading experienced geared towards speed instead of enjoyment. Some books are on topics of long-abiding interests, whereas others serve as distractions, the “diversity” factor so to speak, and so receive less attention. But really, nothing is so predictable. There are books before which I stand accused of reading too hastily even when they’re on topics I very much personally and professionally care about. There are books that I read very well on a bus, and there are those that I go through the motions of reading on a bus. Such guilt, but perhaps I can seek solace in asking if you guys are likewise guilty?