I couldn’t bring myself into the state of mind with which I try to read books that I want to cover - transparent, so I’m not bringing my own preoccupations to the text as I read - but when a book was engaging enough, I could still get through it.īy the next week I had started to grasp that lockdown was going to last a lot longer than two weeks, and then I stopped being able to read. I set up a nest on my fire escape and listened to sirens and read with half my attention. What else was I going to do, I thought I couldn’t leave my apartment. The first week of lockdown, I read a lot. They’ve been ignored, underread, abandoned by a media that hasn’t given books the space they deserve in a year when our focus was mostly elsewhere.īut there were times this year when I didn’t have space in my mind for anything new. There are so many books that came out in 2020 that I just never picked up.
The ones I never picked up and never opened and will have to donate to some worthy cause as soon as I get back to the office, so I can make room for next year’s books. Sometimes I panic, thinking about all those books waiting for me to read them. So I left them all there, all the galleys I had accumulated and sorted by publication date, from April’s new releases to August’s, waiting fresh and expectant on the office bookshelf. I looked at all the ones I had piled up for April, and thought about adding a few of those to my stack, just in case - but then I thought about lugging all those heavy books onto the subway and decided against it. When Vox’s New York office closed in March, I surveyed my bookshelf full of galleys and selected a handful that were due to come out over the course of the month. But also it sometimes feels as if all I did this year was read. I didn’t read as much as I’d have liked to this year.
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