This is a photograph of my street during coronavirus lockdown: the fallen leaves littered over disused cars reminded me of some arthouse zombie movie. In the two weeks since I took this picture, the lockdown has eased, and the streets are already beginning to return to their familiar buzz.
I recently finished reading Beyond a Boundary by Trinidadian writer and thinker C.L.R James, which has been referred to as the best book on cricket, and possibly the best book on sport, ever written. I really enjoyed the book, and highly recommend it to anyone who is interested in the sport of cricket, and its history, or just anyone who wants to get a look into the workings of a very unique and interesting mind.
The first half of the book consists of James reminiscing about his childhood in Trinidad, his exposure to cricket from an early age and dabbling in the game as a player. He writes about his interactions with famous West Indian cricketing figures, in particular Learie Constantine, who after a successful Test cricket career went on to have a significant political career in England, winning major political and cultural battles for the nascent black rights movement in the U.K. It’s all very precisely written and gives you a little window into a world you probably don’t know much about.
The second half of the book, which I personally found even more interesting, is a defence of cricket as an art-form both through a cultural analysis of its creation and most important founding player, W.G. Grace, and an analysis through the lens of art criticism, where James very explicitly makes comparisons between cricket and the dramatic and visual arts.
This really resonated with me, as someone with fairly non-sport interests in general, as a potential explanation for why I have always loved cricket. Of course there’s an element of childhood nostalgia, of memories of playing cricket with my Dad, or talking cricket with adults and trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about, of fake-it-till-you-make-it literacy in a small part of the real world. But the thing that has stuck with me about cricket in my adult life is the astounding gamut of detail available to the spectator of the game, and the pure aesthetic pleasure of it all. As James puts so well:
The total spectacle consists and must consist of a series of individual, isolated episodes, each in itself completely self-contained. Each has its beginning, the ball bowled; its middle, the stroke played; its end, runs, no runs, dismissal. Within the fluctuating interest of the rise and fall of the game as a whole, there is this unending series of events, each single one fraught with immense possibilities of expectation and realization.
I was thinking when I read this part of the book, in particular the parts on batting style, fluidity of movement, comparisons to ancient Olympians, about what James might have had to say about former Australian captain Steve Smith. So recently touted as the next Bradman, maybe even better than Bradman, Smith’s fall from grace was astonishing, and his form since his return has not (yet) reached its former heights. Even during his best days, there was much talk of Smith’s aesthetic style as a player, with many old-school orthodox players finding him ugly, albeit brutally effective, to watch. I personally don’t think James would have thought as highly of Smith as many do, or did, and this perspective has made me start to re-evaluate my own feelings about Smith.
The thing I enjoyed most about this book was the simple pleasure of reading the well-organised thoughts of an autodidact explaining thoughts he has accumulated over his long and interesting life in an eloquent and unpretentious way. James’ language is clear and evocative and precise, and he uses it to build a convincing case for the appreciation of cricket as art.
I’ve been living pretty much under lockdown for six weeks now, as I imagine pretty much anyone reading this when I’m writing in will be; for people who find this in the post-coronavirus future, hello, I hope it’s nice out.
I’ve been thinking these last few weeks about the effect of social isolation on the mind, in particular on the anxious mind. Because there’s two very different sides to this crisis: on the one hand there is a very real and frightening threat to life, stability, health and society, a high level of uncertainty and an immense amount of change in a small amount of time. And on the other hand, the lockdown produces a strange serenity, a return home, a slowing down of what has been a truly relentless pace of living.
I’ve been going through this weird lockdown experience with my wife and our young son, who was a month old when it started and is now ten weeks old: sometimes it feels a bit like we’re raising him in a cave. And here too I constantly feel the push and pull; the cabin fever and difficulty of carving out all the different sectors of your life within the same four walls, as well as the once-in-a-lifetime experience of more time with my infant son than almost any father could hope to have.
But maybe the first is just an instinctive, fight-or-flight reaction to the second. We curl up at the thought of being stuck at home, alone with our thoughts, our families, our truest and most intimate selves. And we are so averse to this and it is so foreign to us precisely because of the pace of life, the relentless movement towards the next step, the next phase. Part of me reads the factoids about Shakespeare writing King Lear while under quarantine due to the black plague and wonders where my Shakespearian creativity is, where is the necessary output from all this extra time.
I beat myself around the head trying to carve out time from my life in the past couple of weeks to write, to work on a novel project I’ve had kicking around my head for a year or so now, and the experience of battling with myself to create something in this weird time really created a lot of tension for me, out of nothing. The pressure to create is coming from an expectation I’ve manufactured for myself, it’s not really coming from a desire to express myself or express an idea I had, or if it is, that’s not the primary driver (like it usually is for this blog). Needless to say, the output, if there is any, is not as good as it could be if inspired in a spontaneous and natural way (of course, the creative process is not always like this; but I do believe that spark needs to be there at least at the beginning).
So these days, a quarantine veteran, I’m tending more towards the “just managing your life is more than enough” mantra. Doing less is good, being less busy, having less to do is a blessing. There are plenty of very tough lessons that will need to be taken from this crisis, plenty of interesting moral dilemmas about the conflict between individualism and individual freedom and the responsibilities of an individual towards the society he lives in. But I think it’s also very important to take away the memory of a very unique and valuable experience, the experience of the world slowing down and letting you breathe, if you would just remember how.
This is a photograph of the street I live on in central Tel Aviv early on a weeknight, usually bustling with people, entirely empty during the coronavirus lockdown.
I’m not sure if there’s anything else I really could write about at this particular time. Like everyone else my age, I’ve never in my life experienced an event which so completely eclipses all other events in its importance and influence over life (September 11, 2001 was similar in its significance but its real-time impact globally was smaller than this). In the last week I have become convinced that, even though this is probably just the beginning of what may well be a hugely tragic global disaster, this is already the biggest global event to happen since the Second World War. This is true I think just considering the fact that billions of people are being confined to their homes, and the drastic snowball effect that is having on all parts of the global economny and societies, without even getting to the public health crisis and the potential cost in human life.
Last time, in XXVI, I talked about the pressure of trying to say something new and interesting about a well-trodden subject like fatherhood. The same is true but on a weirder scale here, since everything that has been written about the pandemic, the disease, its social and economic effects, has all been written in the past few months. Everything is new and uncertain and the volume and acceleration of things happening and being understood every day are unprecedented. This is the nature of exponential growth: just when you think you are coming to terms with something, the order of magnitude changes, and suddenly there are new challenges you didn’t even think of before.
What I do think is particularly fascinating, and what few think pieces I’ve read so far (so many think pieces) have really seemed to get to the heart of, or even really to discuss openly, is the moral tradeoff which is behind all the discussions between governments around the world: the tradeoff between human life and economic damage. This tradeoff is tangibly present throughout the entire crisis, influencing decisions, forcing people to take sides. Even if it is never mentioned by politicians (though by some, notably Donald Trump and Jair Bolsonaro, it is), it’s obviously there, as otherwise there would be no limit to the size of stimulus packages, or the severity of lockdowns, or people’s willingness to comply with them and stay in their homes.
Here’s the truth: there is a direct and intuitively clear link between social distancing and reducing fatalities during a viral pandemic the scale and level of contagiousness of the novel coronavirus. You can convince yourself fairly easily if you’re still skeptical by playing around with a model like this one, which shows you how all the different parameters influence the most important indicator of success or failure in the outcome of this crisis: total fatalities, which is directly dependent on the ability of national health systems to care for all the people who will become sick at the same time. By making that “same time” window wider, we “flatten the curve” of the epidemic, smearing its effects over a longer time but making it do the limbo under the disastrous horizontal asymptote representing total hospital capacity.
Here’s the other truth: the extreme social distancing required to make this happen will have a tremendous effect on the economy. Confining people to their homes means all businesses which rely on people to be outside of their homes: gyms, cafes, restaurants, hairdressers, almost all retail and tourism, will see their revenue fall to zero overnight. Unemployment skyrockets. People start to lose their jobs, and everyone else starts to worry about theirs. Job losses from the sectors that were hit first will start to ripple through other parts of the economy. A depression-scale loss of wealth and productivity is possible. It’s the societal equivalent of shooting yourself in the foot, the deliberate and rapid hibernation of the global economy caused by dramatic government intervention on a scale I’ve never seen in my lifetime.
So this looks like it gives us some parameters to play with in a simple model: on the left-hand side, the total number of COVID-19 fatalities once the pandemic is over (no one quite knows how it’s going to end of course), with a knob you can control that “flattens” or “tightens” the epidemiological curve. You’ll be able to see the fatalities drop as you flatten the curve, since hospital resources will be more available and more people who need life-saving treatment will receive it and recover. But when you turn that knob, a number on the right-hand side moves too, and that number represents the economic damage: say, the total damage to GDP in a given country, in the local currency. The more you flatten the curve, the more draconian and severe the social distancing rules must be, and this has a direct impact on a country’s output.
Here’s the interesting moral question: where is the moral place to set the knob? It can’t be “keep the curve as tight as possible”, which represents the most COVID-19 fatalities and zero economic effect (even though this is of course a simplification of the real situation: the economic effect of doing nothing and simply letting the virus wipe out millions of people and overwhelm global health systems would also be significant), since all but the most pig-headed “libertarians” (where are all the libertarians by the way?) must accept that governments have some responsibility to save lives of their citizens at some cost. And it also can’t be “make the curve as flat as possible”, since eventually unchecked and unending economic slowdown will dramatically change the shape and nature of the planet as we know it.
Of course, the obvious conclusion from all this is that to set the knob involves implicitly placing a monetary value on human life, since this will allow us to directly weigh numbers on the left-hand side against numbers on the right. Particularly morally troubling in this crisis is that this value directly depends on age and health, since the economic weight on the left-hand side must include some measure of remaining productive years.
This of course feels like a step too far, and it’s as far down the rabbit hole as I’m personally willing to go, though I am certain governments and researchers around the world have spent collectively many hours already during this crisis trying to determine these monetary values. On a purely utilitarian level it makes sense, particularly once you begin to quantify the potential loss of life resulting from a depression-scale economic downturn (suicides, homelessness, people losing health insurance and so on). But I think it’s an important thing to keep in mind while we all hunker down and try to see this pandemic out.
And of course, being data literate and aware of the tradeoffs and basic epidemiological models should be something anyone with a passing interest in humanity and its future prosperity strives towards. Lockdowns on the scale and severity seen in Israel or New Zealand, let alone Italy or Hubei, would never be accepted in the United States, for example, due to ignorance of these sorts of hard moral and statistical questions. People would refuse to comply, citing the importance of their individual freedom and the health of the economy as being more important than a bunch of old people who were probably going to die anyway, essentially planting roots down on one extremum of the thought experiment above and keeping their head in the sand throughout the entire pandemic. But this is the equation, whether we like it or not, and it’s worth being intellectually and morally honest about it.
In fact, I think honesty of all kinds is what is going to get humanity through this crisis, and I dearly hope that once it’s all over we will start to realise the importance of truth and honesty again, something that we have seemed dangerously close to discarding over the past decade. You can’t begin to withstand a threat like a pandemic without truth and data and people making rational decisions based on facts. It’s one of the few silver linings of this crisis that we may yet regain our faith and dependence on truth.
This is a photograph of autumn leaves in Eugene, Oregon that I took almost seven years ago on my four-month exchange there. It’s a photo I’ve always loved for its simplicity and beauty.
Two weeks ago my son was born, a healthy and happy baby, and as a first-time father a lot of people seem very keen to hear how I’m finding the experience. Similar to the “which do you prefer, Australia or Israel?” question I wrote about in XX, I find the question “so what’s it like being a father?”, or one of its many and varied iterations, is very hard to answer quickly and glibly, and have found myself at numerous points with different guests at our home over the past two weeks not being able to string together a response that accurately describes how I’m feeling. So I thought I’d try a little harder to express my answer to the question, insofar as an entirely new way of looking at and feeling about life can be said to be an answer to a question.
Ostensibly, pregnancy is preparation for birth. I felt like this was true for emotional preparation in a lot of ways as well. There is a slow but steady and irreversable sense of progress towards a single goal, a single point in time that everyone talks about and describes to you as life-changing. It becomes more intense as time progresses. The inevitable end of the process, its physical intensity and the reality of what comes after become more and more real and closer in time.
Everyone tells you, of course, what happened to them, and this becomes their (almost always unsolicited) advice about becoming a parent. Some say it’s going to be hard, some very hard, some say children sleep more than you’d think, or less, that they cry a lot, or don’t, are sick a lot, or aren’t, and any permutation of these options you can imagine. It’s like this, of course, because the experience of parenting is very personal, the variance of experiences vast, and everyone’s baby, just like everyone, is different. This is something a lot of people miss, I think, a lot of the time: they generalise out their own experiences assuming that everyone experiences things in the same way. It’s not limited to people’s experiences with babies either: this sameness of experience is how societies become so homogenous and bland without the spice and progress that comes with immigration or generational change.
When I initially thought about writing this issue about my own experience, my first thought was to write about the first week, and how I felt then: about the strange and unexpected sense of calm, of the new sense of purpose that seems to permeate everything. Of the relief after the stresses of pregnancy, of finding that newborns actually sleep quite a bit more than I had expected. But the second week changed my mood and my outlook a little bit; I began to feel the gravity and the meaning of what was happening a little more. I had been a little eager to prove the pessimists wrong I think, to show myself that I could still keep all my hobbies and mental “spinning plates” in the air, without necessarily giving myself enough rest or cutting myself enough slack when things were hard. I kept coming back to the question of whether I even really know when things are hard, whether I trust myself to be aware when I am burning out and need to slow down for my own mental health.
So in this very fertile emotional environment I had to carve out some time to sit down and engage with the computer and my mind to write this down. This whole blog, which I’m still not circulating anywhere or trying to promote in any way, became a project I was questioning the meaning and relevance of. Other hobbies and projects, of course, have had to be set aside for the time being. But I wanted to stick with this blog, as it’s becoming an important part of how I condense my thoughts and articulate them to myself. Needing to sit down and write something about my experience in the first two weeks of parenting created what Craig Mod likes to call a “forcing function”: a deliberate barrier you place in your life that you know you will trip over in the future and be required to perform a certain action.
So how to frame the piece, then? I want to be honest, and I want something I will stand behind in the future, and I want something insightful and original that isn’t going to be interpreted precisely as the kind of advice I derided earlier. I don’t want to give advice at all, rather to answer the question I initially posed to myself: what is it like (for me) to be a father?
For me, it’s like a new identity, a new contract with myself and with the world and with my new family. Parts of who I used to be are still there: most of the parts, probably, some in better condition than others. The part that likes reading about programming language design and algebraic geometry at midnight might need to go on a break for a while. But the other parts are all still there, just in smaller amounts (measured in hours per week, say), or a little more dormant (measured in times per month, say). If they’re real, integrated parts of my personality and my full identity then they shouldn’t feel like plates you need to keep spinning. They should reappear when they have enough room to come to the surface.
I’ve written a few times before here about balance, and I have found myself coming back to the idea many times in the past few weeks. I am truly coming to believe that life is all about improving one’s ability to find balance. It’s impossible of course to be truly in balance upon all the infinite spectra that we are placed on throughout our lives. But the process of realising your place on a spectrum that is new to you, and trying to understand its extrema and where you stand between them, and how better you can find that elusive fulcrum in the centre, is something I strive for as a goal in all endeavours. Being a father feels like a very new, very large space made up of many new spectra I have never encountered before in my life, and which I am slowly mapping by feeling them out in the dark. Like with most things at the beginning, like when a point is thrown randomly onto a new axis with uniform probability, the default is to be out of balance, and being alright with that is the hardest part of the process for me. I like being good at things and find it hard when I’m not. I like to think I understand myself, and it’s difficult when I act unpredictably to new things. But when I take a little time to look back on this new seething space from a spectrum where I am more comfortable, say by writing a new issue of Mt. Solitary, it becomes easier to see this new experience for what it is, to appreciate its beauty and its rarity and its humanity more clearly, and to be grateful and happy for these moments, and for myself.
Finally, I hope it goes without saying, that nothing anyone can say can really prepare you for the new reality of having a child. It’s an intense and personal bond that is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before and it all makes me feel stupendously lucky.
This is a photograph of the beach in Tel Aviv in winter. It’s winter again, and I’m writing yet another issue of this blog. Can’t help feeling a bit proud of myself.
Many of my dearest childhood landscapes burnt to ash this Australian summer. In a swathe of bushfires of unprecedented ferocity and scope, much of the eastern coastal plain and forests of Australia were aflame this December and January, including the Blue Mountains where I grew up. 18.6 million hectares burned: 9 times the area of the State of Israel, or around 34% of the area of metropolitan France. Prof. Chris Dickman from the University of Sydney reckoned that around 800 million animals were killed in New South Wales alone. It’s true that fire is a natural part of the life-cycle of eucalypt forests, a fact Australian Aboriginals have known and respected for tens of thousands of years, but the scale of destruction of these forests, and the other types of forests that burnt, was unprecedented and unusual. It was one of those very rare events that humans are notoriously bad at interpreting and reacting to.
The disaster and the ensuing political debate in Australia have particular pertinence for me, and I have been following the news surrounding the fires quite closely. As expected, the hard-right faction of the federal Liberal party is refusing to accept any link between anthropogenic climate change and increased frequency and severity of bushfires. The cause is rogue arsonists or isolated incidents which can be controlled with trivial policy changes. There is hysteria which is unwarranted and silly. The hard left, mostly represented these days by the Green party, is insistent on the direct link between the two, in a way that can often feel a little arrogant and which is subtly statistically disingenuous.
For it is itself a subtle point, and often missed in the narrative around climate change. Humans are proven to be bad at distingishing between small risks, including those whose probabilities of occurance are orders of magnitude apart. I linked to an interesting paper by Israeli behavioural economist Ido Erev in XIV which attempts to isolate the phenomenon in an experimental setting. But you can notice the human bias by noticing your own inability to make different decisions based on risks which are 1 in 1,000 compared with those which are 1 in 10,000.
This is the statistical environment in which the proven and measurable effect of anthropogenic climate change on extreme weather lives. Bushfires of the scale and severity like those that occurred recently in New South Wales may be a “once in a hundred years” kind of event. A degree of global warming may increase this risk to “once every eighty years”. But there are thousands of such possible events, which means if we look at more aggregated statistics like “how many extreme weather events occur every week worldwide”, this number may appreciably change, say from 0.8 to 1.0. More people will die every week. And the problem grows at an exponential rate, and as AA Barlett said, “the greatest shortcoming of the human race is our inability to understand the exponential function.”
So here’s a policy thought you don’t see get much attention: teach people statistics. A robust understanding of how probability works, the notion of statistical independence and statistical significance would go a long way towards better informning the public debate surrounding momentous and unprecedented challenges like the climate crisis. Learning a bit about the exponential function wouldn’t hurt either, but one step at a time.
A similarly weighty and ultimately pessimistic post to follow-up all the cheeriness above. Sometimes I feel very sad about the state of the modern internet and the bargain we’ve all unwillingly gotten ourselves into with the big tech companies. I’ve been using the internet for twenty years, and remember well my first years using it, when almost all content online was written by independent people. Forums, blogs and chat were synonymous with my internet experience until around 2006. A lot of this was centred around gaming and music. Chat was text only with friends, or occasionally strangers met in another online location.
The web changed drastically in the late 00s and early 10s with the dominance of social media and the monetization of engagement by online advertisers. The average web user today has an extremely different experience to what I had fifteen or even ten years ago. The “independent” web, the web not owned by tech giants and advertising companies, still exists, but it’s small, it’s very quiet, and most people have no idea what it is or why we need it.
I think the independent web is very important, for a number of reasons that I don’t really want to go into in this post. I will say though that I’ve been becoming more conscious lately of the meaning of the bargain we all collectively sold ourselves into on the new, ad-driven internet.
If you’re not familiar with how tracking on the internet works, here are some good introductions. But essentially, in the last ten years, advertisers have begun to use personal data from social networks and search engines to profile you. Through the use of your behavioural data, records of when you did certain things online, and other traces you leave behind you as you browse the web, tech companies can sell more precisely targeted ad space for more money.
The scale of the bargain and the lack of awareness is something that I don’t think has ever happened before: most people who use the internet are entirely unaware that this is happening, and certainly don’t appreciate what it means. Throughout the slow but steady rollout and optimisation of this brand new industry, no one was ever asked for their consent or permission or whether they agreed morally to what was going on. As with billboards and television ads before them, advertisers bombarded us with a brand new space and expected everyone to be OK with the transaction. This time however, people were tracked and their behaviour monetised without their awareness. It feels more to me like oil than TV ads: a common resource, in this case our collective personal information, has been privatised without consent, and used to generate massive profits which most people will never see a single percent of.
If you feel uneasy about this as I do then a natural next question to ask is can it be stopped. The answer is that individually, if you are relatively tech-savvy and willing to pay, you can opt out of this arrangement through a series of ad blocker plugins, VPNs and proxies. But on a wide scale these tools are far too complicated and technical and as a result it looks like we’re stuck with the current arrangement until market forces decide how to handle it. The older I get, despite a famous quote to the contrary, I find myself developing a strong and deep skepticism about the types of personalities who are inevitably found in powerful positions in a capitalist society, and the real ability of such a system to do good.
This is a photograph of the beautiful wildflower meadows around Mt. Tabor in Northern Israel. I took the photo almost two years ago, at the end of a pretty tough few months, and looking at it always reminds me of that feeling of coming out of a hard period in life and feeling optimistic for the first time in a while.
I thought I’d end the year by thinking about some of the best things about it, from all different parts of life. A lot of these things I’ve written about throughout the year, and I really feel like they all have made a lasting impression on me, one I will carry around with me for years to come.
My favourite season this year was definitely winter, which bookended the year nicely, beginning as I was starting to read War and Peace, and beginning again as I was ending it.
It’s got the be The Irishman, which I only watched a couple of weeks ago, but which is surely a masterpiece of film-making. This film feels more like a novel to me than any other film I can think of.
Fleabag, without a doubt. It finished this year, and I watched both seasons, in one go, just after it finished airing. The best way to binge-watch a show. I’ve never seen anything like it before, so original and funny and heartwarming and heartbreaking. If you haven’t seen it, and you like watching TV, then this should be next on your list.
I fell in love with Laura Stevenson this year, in particular her latest album The Big Freeze, full of the kind of intricate and beautifully melodic songwriting I wish I had the talent and understanding of the world and of myself to create.
This is a two-way tie I think, between Not by Big Thief and Dawn Chorus by Radiohead. The first is one of the best rock songs of the century so far, a really simple idea building into something huge and moving. And the second is just a transcendent experience by one of the greatest living songwriters, a gorgeous and sad piece that certainly sounds like it’s a song about grief.
Probably my transition to emacs and org mode was one of the most substantial new things I learned this year, finally realising a long-held wish for organising my thoughts and projects in a way I’ve never managed before. At work I did a lot of work with linear programming and network flow graphs, something I needed some refreshing on from my University days but which I really enjoyed coding up for real. I learned a lot of things about myself and about the world as well, many of which are written in the issues of this blog throughout the year.
Definitely A Kumquat for John Keats by Tony Harrison.
Eight days in Thailand with my eight best mates.
This is a hard one to admit, but the best meal I had this year was a beautiful dry-aged entrecote steak I cooked for myself while my pregnant wife was away for the weekend. We barely eat red meat anymore, and definitely not steak since she fell pregnant, so I took the opportunity to reseason my cast-iron skillet and cook the best steak I could find. Did a pretty good job.
The wine I remember most from this year was a 2000 Grand Vin from the Israeli Castel brewery in the Judean Hills that we had for my sister-in-law’s 30th birthday lunch.
It feels a bit corny to say, but this was the year when I really worked hard to make our apartment feel like home, and it became my favourite place in the world. There’s nowhere I’d rather be looking forward to spending 2020 than at my home with my family.
I read War and Peace this year, which is certainly one of the best books I’ve ever read and gave me more cause for reflection and thought and examination of the world than most books do.
Writing this blog every week has been a very enjoyable and rewarding experience. My real hope is that one day I will have the courage and devotion to make it public and try to build an audience for it. But in the meantime, if you’ve found it, then I hope you’re enjoying it.
In a similar way as I described in XXIII about War and Peace, this blog became an important anchor for me, something I had to make myself do sometimes, but which I was ultimately proud of and happy with, and glad that I invested the time in. I can look back on the year as small capsules of thought, 43 of them, frozen in the posts here, each with its own character and perspective depending on how I was feeling when I wrote it. It’s become a very dear and important part of my routine, and I am very much looking forward to continuing with it in 2020.
However, I’m not sure I am going to have the time to carve out of my life every fortnight to write something original and interesting, or to keep up with popular culture fast enough to fill up all the reading, watching and listening sections in every issue. So my current planned scheduled for 2020 is 12 posts, one at the end of every month, starting on January 31. So if you’re reading, see you then.
You can find a list of all the “reading” items from the year here.
You can find a list of all the “watching” items from the year here.