Though the deluge of books is slowing, I'm reaching the point where even digesting the titles of those volumes arriving at my office is like drinking from the proverbial firehose.

Today, Foucault's second volume of The History of Sexuality: The Use of Pleasure, arrived alongside Bakhtin's Dialogic Imagination and collections of plays by Martin McDonagh and Bryony Lavery. When will they be read? Will I ever get to them for more than a cursory perusal, even though every single one of them seems important and worth a read?

Bird by bird, I suppose, word by word, page by page.