This morning on the commute to work I sat next to a man who was reading Hemingway's The Green Hills of Africa. Last night I sat next to a woman who was reading a Garcia-Marquez novel whose title I did not see. Yesterday morning I sat down the way from a man reading Turgenev's First Love in the handsome Melville House edition. Most of my fellow commuters, of course, were looking at Facebook on their cell phones. A dozen or so were reading on little tablet devices, e-readers or whatever. Me? I am almost finished with the first book of a four-part science fiction series that began impressively and has dissolved into insignificance and foolishness. I don't see me diving straight in on the second book. I think I'll read Chekhov's plays again instead, especially as the next story I write for the Antosha in Prague project will be in the form of a one-act comic stage play. What larks for me.