There are Too Many Books and I am Losing my Mind Over How I Will Never Read Enough No Matter How Long I Live Even if I Read Every Second of Every Day and Stop Eating or Sleeping

There are too many books. There. I’ve said it. Stop writing books please. I’m only halfway through The Iliad and now David Mitchell has another fucking book coming out? C’mon Mitchell. Give me a break. Sure, your books are in turns puzzles, elegies, adventures, and epics–but can you slow down a little bit? I haven’t even read Mill On The Floss yet. How has this happened? I mean, it took me weeks to read Middlemarch nearly twenty years ago and I just haven’t had the time to get back to Eliot. And Marilynne Robinson has a new one coming out, too? It’s just generally very uncool of her to put out another book when I’m still thinking about Housekeeping. Bogus move, Robinson. It’s like all these writers are trying to say more words than the world needs. Stop putting your words together. It’s annoying and rude. I’m going right now to start a Facebook group that will demand all writers stop writing books for at least two hundred years so the rest of us can catch up. All except for George R.R. Martin. If that guy doesn’t hurry up and get Daenerys Targaryen up on a goddamn dragon, I’m going to lose my mind.

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