Kathleen Norris’s book “Acedia and Me” has stared at me from my bookcase for six months. “Read me,” it’s glare urges. But, who wants to read a book so depressing that it’s title squashes interest? Why should I read a book which very likely would depress me?
Several times, I’ve reached for it only to turn toward “The Mississippi Writings of Mark Twain” instead. Twain won’t be too interested in depressing me and he won’t wax philosophical, either. His stories engage and even, at times, inspire.
But, today, Like Keats, “On the brink of nothingness, I sit and think.” Twain won’t do today. It’s time to read that other book. Besides, Kathleen Norris is a fine writer, spiritual too. Here I go.