I’m now halfway through my original twelve-month plan for the Literary Year, and boy, writing book reviews is harder than I thought. I’m increasingly impressed by people like Jessamyn, Jeremy, or Cosma (whose site is worth exploring at great length; I first stumbled across it when I was in college, and I’ve enjoy stumbling across it ever since) who can write reviews of a significant percentage of what they’ve read; I can read the darn things faster than I can review them, as evinced by my dozen-book backlog. I still haven’t managed to shame myself into finishing Gravity’s Rainbow (although perhaps the public declaration that I’m trying to will help), and the fact that I’m clearly reading fewer books than I did is vaguely depressing. Still, it’s a fun project; even if people don’t stumble across something worth reading and I don’t manage to polish up my reviewer skills, it still might be an interesting document twenty years from now as Older Me stares in awe at the incredible cheek and lack of discernment on the part of his younger self. These lists can be fascinating personal histories — witness the amazingly voluminous What I Have Read (found via MetaFilter, of course). None