Morning Reading

We had a snowy week. Only one day was bad enough to stay home but I'm always worried about falling so I stayed home the whole week. I'd eat breakfast and then take my coffee, sit in my recliner by the window, pull on the purple throw and read.
In the past I have turned on the news and the computer first thing and preformed a simulacra of working. I usually read in the afternoon and/or evenings. Morning reading feels decadent. Luxurious. I have no where else to be. There are things I could be doing. Dusting the never ending dust, emptying the drier, watering the plants, writing a blog post. Writing anything. But no. I sit with my legs up turning pages and feeling like I am doing exactly what I need to be doing.
After the snow week the morning reading has continued on the days I don't swim. Swimming is the only thing I'd rather be doing.
I blazed through seven novels and a book of essays and I loved all of them. Reading so many books in a row like that can be tricky. A writing style that you love one day feels hollow in comparison to another that you just loved.
I took a class on women writers of the southern cone years ago. We read Of Love and Shadow by Allende right after Mothers and Shadows by Marta Traba. I like Allende very much and have read many of her books. But following Traba's much sleeker and more devastating prose the Allende read like a romance novel. I feel like I would have liked it better if I'd read it first. The Traba tore me open. I'm not sure any writing would have felt real after that. 
I just finished another book of essays. This one by Vivian Gornick. The book is about rereading but as with all Gornick it's really about everything. There was an essay about this problem of reading when you aren't open to the writing and then rereading. She mentions a reviewer who had given a book a bad review and then reread it at a later date and loved it. One of the reasons I don't read or write many reviews is the fluidity of affection.
I bought books specifically because I want to reread them. Books that I read when I was younger. I spent the summer between my junior and senior high school year reading Dostoevsky. I'm sure I would get so much more out of those books if I reread them now. I started to buy all of the Anais Njn diaries but hesitated because I doubted I'd get through them ... again. I'd like to reread all of the Little House books. DH Lawrence. Lawernce Durrell. Collette. Jung.
Years ago I was house sitting for a friend who had all of the Herman Hesse books. I had read them all in high school and loved them dearly. They were pivotal in terms of how I saw the world. I tried to reread them and found them horrible. But I wonder if I might try again and ... fall back in love.
There are just so many new books. And I'm always seeing more. It's quite overwhelming. I am a slow reader. I often need to read sentences and paragraphs two or three times. I may have dyslexia. Or I may just not be able to concentrate. 
OK.
So.
Back to the book.