I’ve finished the entire Frank Herbert original Dune series back-to-back, pacing myself out towards the end (since I realised I completed Pullman’s His Dark Materials a tad too quickly, by which time it was too late). Nothing beats the thrill of a virgin read.
After that, I picked up a couple of others and put them down again. What I feel like reading corresponds to my mood, and that at present remains undefined.
Read a few pages of Wodehouse, managed a few laughs out of it. Too shallow; got tired of it after a while. The Englishness was freshening though. But I felt more non-fictiony. So I bounced between Gould, Dawkins and Jones. Odd, I thought I enjoyed Steve Jone’s writing much more when I was in high school.
I would dearly love to finish Jared Diamond’s Collapse, but it’s in London…