I keep telling myself I should read more. Right after I finished India After Gandhi, I was convinced that reading the footnotes, and at least some of the sources mentioned therein, had to be my objective for the next few months. The rigours of a rat race are imperiously impatient, though, unlike my insolent indolence, so that resolution got dusty pretty quickly.
I was lucky enough to have got at least 15 or more books, though, as part of a course on leadership - and just about not lazy to have started reading a few of them. The ideological war raging inside Hugo's head in Sartre's Dirty Hands was intriguing - and led me to a long night spent on the Encylopaedia Britannica page for World War I. I couldn't finish a quarter of it before I eventually crashed - the link lies in my long read-it-later list of links that I keep intending to read later, along with a cumulative total of 136 e-mails across three Gmail accounts.
I also managed to finish reading the delightful The Little Prince. Many of my much better-read friends (Yes, Rapu and Kitty, you are right on top of that list) wondered what took me so long to get my hands on it, but I think there was no perfect time to read a book described as "a children's book for adults", what with aforementioned cynicism raising its resilient head ever so often through the dying winter.
The holidays after college and before work afford way too much free time. I've dozens of books I've wanted to read, and another dozen my father wants me to - not to mention most of the stack that I'd bought with that first stipend in Roorkee. But these holidays are eerily similar to those after the first year in R-land - eating, sleeping and a mad urge to learn a programming language even after it being proven a million times that I'm as out of my depth at coding as one David Moyes at Old Trafford.
So, reading must wait until I'm convinced that the only reason I'm trying to learn said programming language is so that I can make the many jokes hiding in the endeavour to be an articulated Python. (Ugh.)
At least I'm not lazy enough to rant about it. For the second time on this blog.
I keep telling myself I should write more...
P.S. - That alliteration was verily verbose, rambunctiously redundant, ineptly ineffective and... you get the point.
I was lucky enough to have got at least 15 or more books, though, as part of a course on leadership - and just about not lazy to have started reading a few of them. The ideological war raging inside Hugo's head in Sartre's Dirty Hands was intriguing - and led me to a long night spent on the Encylopaedia Britannica page for World War I. I couldn't finish a quarter of it before I eventually crashed - the link lies in my long read-it-later list of links that I keep intending to read later, along with a cumulative total of 136 e-mails across three Gmail accounts.
I also managed to finish reading the delightful The Little Prince. Many of my much better-read friends (Yes, Rapu and Kitty, you are right on top of that list) wondered what took me so long to get my hands on it, but I think there was no perfect time to read a book described as "a children's book for adults", what with aforementioned cynicism raising its resilient head ever so often through the dying winter.
The holidays after college and before work afford way too much free time. I've dozens of books I've wanted to read, and another dozen my father wants me to - not to mention most of the stack that I'd bought with that first stipend in Roorkee. But these holidays are eerily similar to those after the first year in R-land - eating, sleeping and a mad urge to learn a programming language even after it being proven a million times that I'm as out of my depth at coding as one David Moyes at Old Trafford.
So, reading must wait until I'm convinced that the only reason I'm trying to learn said programming language is so that I can make the many jokes hiding in the endeavour to be an articulated Python. (Ugh.)
At least I'm not lazy enough to rant about it. For the second time on this blog.
I keep telling myself I should write more...
P.S. - That alliteration was verily verbose, rambunctiously redundant, ineptly ineffective and... you get the point.
