Reader in search of novel

I forgot my book this morning. Somehow it never completed its journey from the table by the door into my bag, although the water bottle, tax forms and yogurt with which it was keeping company did. I felt a bit helpless this morning on the el, not quite sure what to do with myself. Which is strange, since lately I have been napping instead of reading. My pace has slacked these past two weeks; perhaps I've lost the Will zum Lesen (with no apologies to Shopenhauer, since I make it a policy not to apologize to German philosophers). I think it's partially attributable to having had a good run of books, the Shteyngart and Andrea Levy's Small Island back-to-back, that I've been leary of reading another so soon after, like having Hersheys after Vosges. Shirley Hazzard's The Transit of Venus is good, certainly Belgian chocolate quality, but I have been too busy packing at night, dozing on the train and running errands or working out at lunch, to read much more than 100 pages this past week. And now that I could make a dent in it, I feel its absence quite painfully. At least it forced me to go to the gym at lunch.