Before I stuff myself to health-risking bloatedness, I feel compelled to give thanks for a few of my favorite literary things:
I'm thankful for the existence of Zadie Smith (at right)*, William Shakespeare, Andrea Barrett, 
Michael Connelly, William Faulkner, Anne Lamott, Barbara Kingsolver, Haven Kimmel, Ian McEwan, Martin Amis and Jane Austen. And Patrick McManus, the guy who does the comics Mutts. I love Mutts. And lots of others I won't bore you with.
I'm thankful I never have to read Moby-Dick unless I really want to.
I'm thankful I have excellent reviewers who write for me who will review the books I want nothing to do with (Philip Roth, I'm talking to you).
I'm thankful I never have to read John Irving's Until I Find You again. Though I am also thankful I'll definitely be able to read Hotel New Hampshire and A Widow for One Year again.
I'm thankful I have a job that lets me read for a living, even if sometimes that means I have to break my heart over a disappointment like Alice Sebold's The Almost Moon.
Mostly, though, I'm just happy to read. And that my sister made crabcakes as a Thanksgiving appetizer. Happy holidays!
* full on blathering post about how much Zadie Smith rules coming soon.
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