This summer I set myself a simple rule: read short books, and finish them. No half-read stack growing on the desk.
The first was a collection of essays about walking. The second was a history of a small town, told through its market. The third was a novel I had meant to read for years and kept putting off because it looked long. It was not long. It was just unfamiliar.
None of them changed my life. All of them were pleasant company for a few evenings, which is enough.