DO YOU EVER worry that you’ve read it all—not all of it, of course, but all the books that prompt that flashlight-under-the-covers, can’t-stop-till-I’m-done, giddy glee? The fear strikes me sometimes, when I’m scanning bookstore tables piled high with novels set in Brooklyn or Forks, Washington, or skimming through the lesser works of my literary loves. (I don’t recommend the soldiers of Sebastopol Sketches for anyone seeking another Vronsky, though Tolstoy’s account of his time in the Crimea certainly has its charms.) And then you find it, and under the covers you go.
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