Almost exactly one month ago, I wrote about the positive effects of drinking a hell of a lot of water.

This week I have discovered the mental equivalent.  For the last five days, I have read at least 200 pages of literature a day (French counts double).

My god, the dreams I am having – they haven’t been this vivid or active since circus school.  Writing is easier.  Reading is easier.  It hasn’t even been a week but I feel like I’ll need to increase my daily intake to 300 pages a day.

I am even starting to find some common ground with the writer I love to hate, Umberto Eco, a genius who uses reason and analysis to squeeze the life out of books.  He ossifies literature and uses brute-force methodology as creative process, but I am starting to realize that he has a point: read enough classic literature back-to-back and you will find thematic threads that connect it all.

I still think that this suggests more about the psychology and soul of the reader than about the landscape of a unified canon of literature, but Umberto probably reads a thousand pages a day.

He mentally pisses his ideas out as a ceaseless, colorless stream – in three languages, no less.

Mental incontinence; what a state to aspire to!

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