I don’t know why I bother posting reading lists. I don’t remember ever following a reading list beyond maybe two books. It’s fun to discuss what I want to or should read, but I should never presume to set it in stone. One of the joys of owning books is perusing them over a time and simply choosing one that feels right to read at that moment. It means, too, that one week my list might look like this and the next it might look like that.
The list I made up for this summer was not only heavy, but premature and too rigid. Plus, I made it up off the top of my head without a glance at my bookshelves. Ignoring for the moment possibilities in theology and spirituality, where are Kafka, Paley, Dillard, Buechner and Berry? What of Leacock, Findley, Achebe, Faulkner, Austen, Stegner? How about In Praise of Slow and In Defense of Food? What about Amusing Ourselves to Death or Prairie: A Natural History?
Let’s be realistic. My summer reading will look like what it looks like. Sure, I could use some structure in my life–but not in my reading. Not in the summer, anyway.