So I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell lately: I haven’t been in the mood to read any books. After finishing Umberto Eco’s The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana on Sunday night, the motivation to read left me, like the flocks of birds that will soon be migrating south. I’ve been trying to persuade myself that I feel really bad for my sudden lapse of reason, but the truth is, I only feel a slight twinge of guilt. Granted, it’s not enough to get me to pick up one of the books I know I should read, but I haven’t felt my I.Q. take a significant plunge (not that I have much I.Q. to begin with), so I suppose I’m safe. But I wonder how much longer this can last.

Still, I can’t help but chuckle at the irony: I guess this has finally taught me that bad habits really are harder to break than good ones.

It’s true: women who read Jane Austen novels are sexy.

I’m probably in the minority when I write this, but there’s something attractive about a woman reading Sense and Sensibility. Despite an entire generation of women proclaiming her as the embodiment of chick lit, Austen’s novels exude intelligence, humor, and good taste—three attributes which last far longer than a flawless complexion and a great pair of breasts. But I’d be more moved to attempt some flirtatious banter with a woman reading Pride and Prejudice: the irony of the opening line hopefully wouldn’t be lost on her, and it might even make for an interesting conversation. At the very least, we might exchange a few witty barbs before she informs me, with twinkling eyes, that she has a gay friend who just happens to be single and, coincidentally, also loves Jane Austen.