Sketch: A Young Would-Be Expatriate Literati

I've read more in the past month than I had in the twelve preceeding months. Something of an accomplishment, in my petty little world.

The odd thing is that I think I've had no more free time than usual. I worked seven hours a day in D.C., and Germany (especially Arno's shining portion) has more than enough entertainment to fill my days.

Last night, we watched Hero. The night before, I learned to play IBA, the German version of "quarters."

Perhaps the absence of a roommate or a fast internet connection (and now, the loss of my computer itself, with its hundreds of hours of downloaded cartoons) have something to do with my newfound efficiency.

But more than anything else, I think I'm reading more and better because I suddenly want to again. Now seems like a good time for it, after all. Though I'm sure it's retarding my assimiliation of German.

Words, read and written, are becoming more important to me with every year. I feel compelled to write, but I also feel that a certain amount of reading excuses me from that obligation. So I don't feel especially guilty for concentrating on the one at the expense of the other.