For quite some years now, I have had a goal of reading sixty books a year, which averages, you know to five books a month.  As you would expect there are years that I read a bit more, a bit less, just right.  However, this year, January will come and go without my having read nary a one.  The flabbergasting thing is that I cannot put my finger on any particular reason why, other than perhaps a general sense of ennui, a word I absolutely love.