To cover up your late-to-the-party shame, you immediately grab another book from a nearby shelf, something about somebody’s daughter (a wizard or a bee keeper or some such person; you’re not really paying attention to anything but the shifty looks everyone is directing at you). But hey, while you’re exorcising demons, you figure you’ll tackle that big classic you’ve been putting off for years. It doesn’t matter which one it is. David Copperfield, Swann’s Way, Ulysses: it’s all the same. You pick it up, read the back cover yet again, waffle between all the different cover designs, then put the book back on its shelf and promise it (for, what, the twelfth time?) that you’ll get it when “you can really devote the attention to it that it deserves.”
So you’re a liar. Who cares? I’m going to ease your burden and send you on to this page.