I’ve been a lazy reader this week. I’ve temporarily given up on Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf—which, considering the nature of the book, probably isn’t surprising—and, despite my best intentions, I’ve pushed Miguel de Cervantes’ Don Quixote to the side. (I’m moving to Florida next week, which is distraction enough, so I’ll pick up the thread in May, at the very latest.) And though I started William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying a few nights ago, I haven’t made much headway; it’s a challenging book in the sense that I went into it knowing next to nothing about it and was surprised to find that it requires all my concentration. Faulkner uses very broad brush strokes to paint the story and characters. Reading it is like trying to discern the landscape of a half-finished painting: certain details stand out, but the overall portrait is hard to discern.