I am old and should know better. It is my annual season of despair and my health is in decline. As I wallow in an insecure and stagnant limbo, I escape into second and third-rate literature. Yesterday I thought, enough is enough. Late last night, I went to my shelves and picked out one of the great novels of the 20th century that I had never read (one reason why personal libraries are never obsolete). After an hour of reading, I fell into a deep sleep. My dreams were vibrant and exhilarating. For the first morning in nearly two months, I awoke with anticipation and firing on all eight cylinders (I am an old-fashioned, large engine. Yes, I consume an inordinate amount of fuel but, on the open road, it is worth the expenditure of my energy.). Great literature is a balm that soothes the soul.