I am not proud of my indiscriminate promiscuity. I must have
done the deed thousands of times and, no matter how invigorating, entrancing or
utterly pleasurable it was, I very rarely return to the same partner and most
of the time I cannot even remember their names or what they looked like. When
it is over, the itch to repeat it starts almost immediately, to do it again and
again and to do it better.
But that’s how it is, isn’t it, when you are a compulsive
reader of books?
