10 November 2005

Today I spent a long time in Borders with Atlas Shrugged, tossing it gently from one hand to the other, feeling its heft. I really do think Atlas Shrugged and I would get along (and at least two friends have assured me as much) but on the other hand … it’s 900 pages … of really small type … and such thin, shitty, un­sat­is­fac­tory pages. (Ever since dating a de­scrip­tive bib­li­og­ra­pher I’ve have been super at­ten­tive to the phys­i­cal at­trib­utes of books, and Borders’ Atlas Shrugged was a wretched thing.)

Nine hundred pages is about a month of reading, and that’s at an average of 30 pages a day, which I’m not so sure I can manage. I read The Three Musketeers in two days when I was in holiday in Italy, but that wasn’t exactly hard labour. Should I make a go of it?