When I left graduate school long ago without earning my doctorate, one of my first thoughts was “Now I’ll be able to read whatever I want.” And I set out to do just that. Throughout my 20s, in my pre-children days, I followed my heart and desire in pursuit of literature. For hours every day, books were my companions, ranging from the works of novelists as diverse as Dostoevsky, John Gardner, and Raymond Chandler to William Manchester’s biographies and Shelby Foote’s “The Civil War.” Some of these writers took up permanent residence in my ramshackle mansion of literature. Often I’d return to their novels, essays, and histories, picking up “The Great Gatsby” or Ray Bradbury’s short stories and read at random to listen to their prose rhythms like some jazz aficionado replaying his Louis Armstrong recordings for the 100th time. For 15 years or more, I also taught some of …