Literary ADD

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.

What gives?

A thirst for knowledge? Definitely. A deep and abiding love of literature? Certainly. OCD? Maybe.

Literary ADD? Probably.

Please forgive the adverbs.