the never ending Pond

I am reading Walden. Still. It is a still sort of reading and still sort of book also - in the evenings on top of the sheets with the fan sucking in the cool air or the air conditioner buzzing away and hopefully not making my nose stuffy by morning. Even with the fan or the ac it's just barely cool and unhumid so that any extraneous movement is a poor decision. I lie curled loosely on a side or on my back (Walden is a wonderfully small paperback, perfect for supine reading or taking in a purse for the bus) only eyes moving and occasionally fingers. The moralizing of Economy drove me nuts but the promise of the american classic pulled me through - Visitors was better and I made peace with Thoreau by the time he extolled the virtue of beans as the green bean is, I have attested, my favorite food. It's unclear which sort of bean he's referring to but I hardly believe he would have grown so many bushels of black or pinto or lima - who would want them? I picked Walden up from Powells when it was still regularly cold and it has sat on my bookshelf (serving as a bed-side table) for months now, picked at slowly like corn stuck between my teeth. I've put it aside (back to the bookshelf) to cover it with something more tantalizing, more thrilling, but eventually I come back to it. It's a book that for no particular reason I'm determined to not like which begs the questions of why I keep reading it. I think at this point the intrinsic literary value (critically acclaimed!) has exhausted itself. I just want to know what he will arrogantly and lovingly discuss next.