I continue to read Chaucer. Yes, Geoffrey, I get it: men are violently jealous and women are unfaithful. Find another tune to sing, please. I have read four hundred pages of this, with almost another hundred remaining. I have Chaucer fatigue, possibly.
I'm also reading a partially dramatized account of Whymper's first ascent of the Matterhorn, of which 2015 is the 150th anniversary. 3,000 people climb the Matterhorn annually these days. There are apparently fixed ropes all the way to the summit. Four of the seven members of Whymper's team died on the descent, their roped-together bodies tumbling down the mountain, cartwheeling and bouncing off the immense flat rock faces. Horrible. The expedition created a mountaineering craze that endures to this day.
Other reading includes some German language short stories by Berthold Brecht and Stefan Zweig, good stuff. I surprise myself that I'm not reading anything Chekhov related right now. I am less surprised to discover that I'm not working on anything in the way of writing. I have a big revision waiting in the wings, but I want to finish reading a number of things before I start on that project.
Not related to reading or writing, I guess, is the discovery of the so-called "fear of missing out" phenomenon, FOMO as the kids call it. I do not suffer from this. I didn't watch any of the important television shows over the last decade, I haven't read any of the latest important novels or nonfiction books of the moment, and I don't know who any of the pop stars are right now. I am pretty sure that whatever I'm missing out on is not worth a pin, or a thimble's full of anxiety.