Soldiered through an Aldous Huxley novel this weekend; it's set in 1922 and apparently very satirical, although the finer points of the satire were likely lost on me. Had a vague sense as I read that life or at least literature is passing me by. Novel-reading is such a habitual, vaguely wholesome way to spend time. The lingering sense that it's good and valuable to read, read anything. Not that I didn't enjoy it, Huxley can be hilarious, it just seems odd to pluck a novel so clearly directed at its contemporary moment and read it with so little context, so aimlessly. It would be like reading Generation X in 2076 and wondering what on earth Douglas Coupland is ranting about (or like another less-than-17-years-old example...).