I used to look at the body of literature as a vast plain spread out before me, where I was free to wander wherever I pleased. It feels now as though I am stocking a small room, and each new book leaves less room for the next.
I suppose that a growing sense of how time is in short supply is an inevitable consequence of growing older, and that one grows to appreciate more with each passing year the importance of making intelligent choices about how to spend it. In my case, however, this sense competes with a somewhat cavalier approach to life's organizational tasks.