Last week was packed with human interaction, so I decided to follow my antisocial instincts this weekend. I spent it catching up on sleep, catching up on work, and reading, reading, reading.

I finished off Nicholas Nickleby on Saturday - I'd been working on it for over two months now, but I only committed my full attention to it a few weeks ago, when I realized that if I kept putting it down in favor of other things it would take a year to get through it. Around page 600 (with 350 pages to go) I became anxious to finish it, but I was also enjoying myself...it was funny, and rewarding, and I certainly didn't want to give it up, but as an exclusive relationship it was getting a little, well, monotonous (I did take this novel, to have and to read, in sickness and in health and forsaking all others as long as the chapters shall last).

In contrast, Chuck Palahniuk's Lullaby was a one-night - or rather, one-day - stand: started over Sunday's breakfast and finished before dinner, even while being dropped periodically throughout the day for errands or the pesky, aforementioned work. Like a good one-night stand it was intense, and visceral, and felt like the inside of a movie.

The strange thing was that I picked up Nicholas Nickleby out of habit tonight, and wound up reading the appendices. Turns out I miss it.

But I'm still not getting anywhere near Little Dorrit.