Ah, summertime. To me, that means pretty much one thing: summer reading. If only my boss would hand me a stapled list of titles in June with SEE YOU IN SEPTEMBER across the top, right? Le sigh.
Summer means freedom. Even if you don’t have time off, there’s something about these months—the sheer length of the days, the sweltering heat, and the way barefoot-summer-night-fun is offset by the dull endlessness of a July afternoon—there’s something about summer that just begs you to do nothing. Or better, as my friend Albert Camus puts it, “The hardest time was summer, when the heat killed even the sweet sensation of boredom.” Okay, Albert is talking about the heat in Algeria, but it sounds an awful lot like summer in Texas to me. Sometimes the A/C just doesn’t cut it.
