Just the one

Ah, the light-chested relief at only having one book on the go. Even if that book is Mabanckou's African Psycho.

It's a joy to have finished everything else, especially The Divine Comedy, which had taken a while, and, in its glorious end, run me completely dry.

To be at that point where the bookshelf is your oyster, the options are endless, is an enormous indulgence. It reminds me of Christmases as a kid, when I'd tear open the Cadbury's lolly stocking and prepare to choose the first item—knowing full well that there were days and days of other lollies to come, and that this, friends, was just the beginning.

I haven't heard from Steinbeck in a while. Or Godden. Or Diamond, for that matter, or even Winchester. Shall I revisit them, or choose something new? Something someone's lent me?

Such an indulgence. I've decided not to choose, not tonight at least. Instead I'll stick with African Psycho for now, and see what strikes me tomorrow. For now, though, just the one.