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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.