A strange upshot of the pandemic is that it
has interfered with my novel-reading. It holds
so much of my attention, via constant updates, that nothing
else seems to have priority. My constant wish for more
time is ridiculous. What can be more fruitless than
asking more of what life can give? Better wish for an
effective and inexpensive vaccine. What expanse
of fictionless evenings can be damaging? Months of
only reading reviews, not actual novels is a desolate
prospect. Are novels teaching me another life lesson via their absence?
(This is a Golden Shovel. The final words in each line read as the last sentence of Strange Weather in Tokyo, a novel by Hiromi Kawakami.)