The problem with reading an excellent book is that, after you finish, you are still infected with it, and your organism rejects any new book you want to introduce.
For several days, you stalk around, bookless and morose, sending everybody into flight with sad and hopeful pleas of “so one more thing about this book I just finished…”
“It’s OK, you’ll find a new book soon,” say long-suffering relatives and friends, squeezing your hand with fake compassion and absconding at a fast clip to prevent you from breaking into a yet another paean to the recently finished book.
“Anything yet?” they ask dejectedly if no new book has been found by day 3. “By the way, did I mention I’m going to be really busy until Thursday?”
Finally, you tumble into a new book, and everybody breathes easily for the time being.
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