This morning I finished reading Boswell’s Life of Johnson — all twelve hundred pages of it, which I’ve consumed in chunks between other books. The last five hundred pages I read in a long push. I have a nice old hardback Modern Library edition, bought in a used book store in Gold Beach last summer and now covered with my notes in blue pen. It has no index, so I’ve been tagging important pages with the relevant information, phrases and names running along the book’s upper margin. If the paper weren’t so thin you could read those notes like a flip-book: the scribbled stick-figure version of the Life.
Now I’m trying to imagine what a stick figure with a dropsy would look like. Bah.
Next I have about three half-finished Woolf-related books awaiting me; I went on something of a binge at Powell’s. And I still haven’t decided what to do with Louise’s memoir; or, rather, how to plan what to do with it, so I don’t end up with an even greater mess. I did manage to edit one academic paper into shape for submission as a conference paper. Two others — longer, of course, but in better condition — need the same treatment.
I feel as though I’ve swallowed down summer in a gulp, and now fall comes racing closer. I’m not ready yet.