p. 30

At some point in my early days of reading I made a rule that if I make it to page 30 then I will finish the rest of the book. This was wiser than I could have understood at the time, as it released me from the obligation to finish dreadful books just because I’d started them. This rule became so ingrained in my reading practice that I still resent the book that first made me break it (D. H. Lawrence, Women in Love).

But now that I am so far gone in my academic career to have essentially forgotten what if feels like to read without obligation it strikes me that very many, if not even most, books loose their excitement after the thirtieth page. Theirs is the pleasure of striking out on a journey as well as the tedium of privatised rail travel and the hour’s wait for a connection on a windy platform at Peterborough.