Right now I'm reading Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited, having encountered its mention in some blogs recently and finding it available at a local library.
I don't have anything to say about Brideshead yet, having made it only a third of it, but I did find something interesting in Chapter IV:
The languor of Youth — how unique and quintessential it is! How quickly, how irrecoverably, lost! The zest, the generous affections, the illusions, the despair, all the traditional attributes of Youth — all save this — come and go with use through life. These things are a part of life itself; but languor — the relaxation of yet unwearied sinews, the mind sequestered and self-regarding — that belongs to Youth alone and dies with it.
Speaking of languor, it reminds me of all the time I have sequestered reading those many books I read last week:
GK Chesterton's St Thomas Aquinas, Patrick O'Brian's Master and Commander, Far Side of the World, and Reverse of the Medal, and Gayle Lynds' Masquerade.
Back to work!