On average, I read about 50 books a year. That sounds like a lot—until you do the math. If I were to live another 42 years (which is exactly how old I am now), that means I have time for just 2,100 more books in this lifetime. That number? It gives me instant literary anxiety. The kind where you start second-guessing every page you turn.

Because here’s the thing: when you realise your reading life is, in fact, finite, you start asking tough questions. Like: Should I keep reading this book that hasn’t sparked anything in me after the first 30 pages? Or do I gently close it, thank it for its time, and move on to another—one that might actually teach me something real? Read more