I am a reader again.

I dropped off reading for a long time. There were bits and pieces,summaries, reading from the end to the beginning selected portions, but I had stopped reading. And I never read the books I wanted to, the ones that daunted me. When we read, especially the very old things, we are participating in a long conversation that goes back and back and back. Since January: Wuthering Heights, Frankenstein, Manning Marable's book on Malcolm X, the Aeneid.

Now I begin to see, in this huge conversation, that I had drifted off into fatality. I had stopped believing in the ability to do. There is a quiet happiness in me again because once again, I am a believer in the human spirit.