There is a particular grief that has no name — or rather, it has a name, but you don't learn it until you're in it. It's the grief of finishing a book you.
There's a specific pleasure in reading about a character who is smarter than everyone else in the room — not in the sense of being morally superior or.
I taught American history for thirty-one years, and I can tell you that the American West is the part of the curriculum where students' eyes start to glaze.
I have to tell you something about this list. I did not plan to read books about people adapting to new worlds. I started with one because I was between things.
I have a confession to make. For thirty-one years of teaching American history, I told my students that biology was not my subject. I said it with a smile so.
I was thirteen, reading in my childhood bedroom with the door closed because my mom worked nights and I was supposed to be asleep, and I got to the chapter.
I don't talk about my father much, which is not the same as not thinking about him. There's a particular way I learned to fold myself small — in chairs, in.
I'm going to tell you something that might sound strange coming from a guy who didn't really read until his forties: the best reading I've done in the last few.
The winter I turned twenty-seven, I spent three months convinced I was losing my ability to concentrate. I would start a paragraph and lose the thread halfway.
I want to start by saying something that the self-help industry doesn't want you to know: you don't have to spend hundreds of dollars on therapy or coaching or.
