There is more to learn. In a single phrase, that would have to be my motto. And summer reading is my sacrament.

    I was looking the other day rather closely at the collection I have of books still unread, but which I intend to read some fine day or decade. I did a calculation and discovered that I might very well own enough books to keep me busy for the rest of my lifespan. Clearly I buy too many books, or at least more than I need. But what if my need exceeds my capacity? I think that's called obsession. But I would rather be obsessed by learning than by other vices.

    Perhaps I am playing games with mortality. Perhaps I assume that until I have completed the reading of my library, my health will remain unimpaired. And I will maintain my mental faculties. I remember overhearing a whispered conversation between two Harvard professors about a third and retired professor. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, it's just that the conversation was going on very close to me. We were wedged into the same aisle of a bookstore. And one of the two said that he had visited the third party not long ago. They were looking at the bookshelves of works by Harvard faculty, perhaps their own books, perhaps a new edition of the absent professor's book. And one of the two gentlemen in the aisle with me was asking how the retired colleague was doing. And in a grim tone the first whispered of the invalid, "He can't read." This news was meant to convey an end to the purpose of life. Or so I took it, believing as I have said that there is always more to learn, and by implication that the purpose of life is learning. (Cont’d on Page 5)