Chasing Windmills

You know that ol’ Peanuts cartoon? The one where Lucy holds the football for Charlie Brown so that he can kick it? C.B. is reluctant because he’s afraid Lucy will pull the ball away at the last second and he’ll fall on his can. But somehow, Lucy always convinces him that this time she won’t pull the ball away, and C.B. goes to kick the ball and Lucy pulls the ball away, there is C.B. on his can. That is me, chasing windmills. Windmills, in this instance, are interminably long books, that despite their interminable length, have an allure, a siren song, a mystique, and a cultish air of mystery that makes me return to them again and again, only to have Lucy pull the football from me, and whoops! Here I am on my can once again. I am foolishly seduced by these types of books, unable to resist their charms. And yet, unable to commit fully to the relationship. I am thinking about this now because, well, not to beat around the bush, but I’ve been ensorcelled by one of these windmills. Sitting…