On average, I read about 40 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 would leave me time for just 1680 more books in this lifetime. That number 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 close it, thank it for its time and move on to another, one that might actually teach me something real? Read more