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The sermon for Apr. 27, 2004 is: to the reader who employs his leisure ill 1:26 a.m. There is no way in hell that I will ever read this book in its entirety, this book being the 1616 edition of Robert Burton's The Anatomy of Melancholy; a book that is, I think, 2400 pages long, though there is no real way of figuring this out with real certainty, since pages unfurl like heraldic banners hoisted from other pages like one of Proust's papier�les; and moreover Burton seemingly came up with his own page numbering scheme. And yet I can't stop picking up this heavy bastard (I use the term bastard in its technical sense), fascinated by the 124 pages I did read tonight, which is a series of direct and increasingly insecure addresses to the reader. It's like reading a shy Tristram Shandy. Here's an example of this charm: page 124, "To The Reader Who Employs His Leisure Ill," I just had to share this with you: Again I warn you against cavilling, lest, while you calumniate or disgracefully disparage Democritus Junior [Burton's nickname for his penis?], who has no animosity against you, you should hear from some judicious friend the very words the people of Abdera heard of old from Hippocrates, when they held their well-deserving and popular fellow-citizen to be a madman: "Truly, it is you, Democritus, that are wise, while the people of Abdera are fools and madmen." You have no more sense than the people of Abdera. Having given you this warning in a few words, O reader who employ your leisure ill, farewell.  
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