I no more read for pleasure. There was a long period when I did nothing else. I stopped reading when I became seriously involved with literature study (even if it makes no sense). Now, casual reads annoy me because I see through them. Serious reads I can’t pursue for pleasure, as I immediately start dissecting them with the tools of literary criticism.
I’m a lost case. Today, however, I managed to finish a book, and I didn’t entirely hate reading it. Though, of course, I ended up with several typed pages of notes, quotes and ideas for further analysis. I’ll be analysing it even in my sleep. I have a PhD in English Literature – it’s a confession, not a boast. That explains everything. It’s an experience to scare you for life.