I've thrown myself into numerous short-lived interests over the years.
Marine Engineering, Oriental History, Vegetarianism, the Nobility of the Gold Standard, the Art of the Cobbler. All these interests and more have been stalked by my insatiable desire to possess their salient facts and lavish my own interpretation upon them.
In fact, it's probably truer to say I've thrown myself at those interests, rather like a desperately indiscriminate Romeo fabricating an all consuming love within himself for a wholly unsuitable paramour.
At the beginning of our relationship, I go to the library and borrow a few books on whatever interest I'm currently admiring from afar. Nothing serious, just your typical first date reading material: a basic overview and a few critical studies of the interest. Then, about a week later, I'll move onto the weightier tomes, a self-proclaimed expert already reviewing the work of lesser commentators, well prepared to publicly dispute any two-bit academic presumptuous enough to lecture on my adored interest and host a Q&A session afterwards.
But, alas, the bloom falls from the rose as quickly as it appears. My current inamorato, the Art of Renaissance Italy, say, is brusquely abandoned in favor of a fresh, new interest with more exciting charms. Water-skiing, for example.
And this Lotharian pattern continues, ad infinitum. Computer Science. Hand-Loom Weaving. Egyptian Hieroglyphs. Just three more notches on the bedpost next to my reading lamp.
For some reason, however, my love for the practice of Meditation always remains unrequited. "It's not me, it's you," I'm told.
