Sleepless is a book that practically had my name on it. A chronic insomniac since childhood, I’ve watched more than one sunrise with salty tears of self-pity in my eyes. So I was intrigued by a book that promised insomnia so much worse than anything I’ve ever experienced. What better way to comfort myself on those long, long sleepless nights than to remind myself, à la Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are? by that mad genius Dr. Seuss, that it could be worse, that I could have a rogue prion in my brain eating holes in it and keeping me awake until I finally die?
My brain versus all the books! What will be the victor?!
Actually, my brain already jumps out of my head, locks itself in a closet and whimpers softly at the thought that I will die before even reading the books on my to-be-read shelf, much less all the books on the planet. And I am not making things any easier by reading in more than one language. That just multiplies the number of books my brain will need to go up against. Fortunately, my Swedish has rusted almost to the point where I can’t read it so easily, so that takes at least a subset out of the running. But the Japanese publishing industry is insanely prolific and there are so many excellent French books, so that probably offsets any breather I might get from failing to read Swedish.
I think the books may have already won. Still! My brain does not admit defeat so easily. I will read the books in my methodical fashion, allowing my brain a chance to show off its amazing literacy. (And it really is amazing when you think about it.)