I have literary Attention Deficit Disorder.
No, really. I think I do.
Or maybe it's just another example of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies.
Case in point:
I read the excellent new biography on Walter Cronkite. And then I buy, mostly on the cheap, books by or about many of the CBS news correspondents from the Tiffany Network's golden age, enough to fill a sizable shelf.
I tour the Knoxville FBI building. So, I seek out a copy of Don Whitehead's "The FBI Story."
I read a piece in The New York Review of Books about a new Dickens biography. And want to read everything. "Great Expectations." "Bleak House." "David Copperfield." Everything.
Gore Vidal passes away. I recall reading "Lincoln" years ago. And I want to read "1876." And "Burr." And one of his memoirs.
I stumble upon the lauded 1981 Granada Television version of "Brideshead Revisited" streaming via Netflix and immediately want to wallow in Evelyn Waugh.
A thirst for knowledge? Definitely. A deep and abiding love of literature? Certainly. OCD? Maybe.
Literary ADD? Probably.
Please forgive the adverbs.