All of creation suffers, young ones. Only in accepting our own mortality can we make a difference. Only in bearing the burden of our failures can we find the strength to go on. Only in detachment from glory, or honour, or jealousy... from life itself can we hope to spare others from grief.
We are Doom Eagles. And we are dead already.
This last month was disastrous in terms of reading. My work is consuming a lot of time. Let us hope that before the idles of March it all be over and my reading pace returns... But March will be a change. I am going to read only books from before the seventies. (With the exception of Thousand Orcs by RA Salvatore that I am trying to finish...
Next month probably I will start reading a series. Either Louis McMaster Bujold saga or Michael Moorcock Eternal Champion tales... I have almost all books in both series... What should I choose?