“Some books should be tasted, some devoured, but only a few should be chewed and digested thoroughly.”

I’m not sure who said it, but the quote above is usually used to justify some three-course-meal types of literature. The kind with subtle flavors, like a soufflé, that you have to talk about like a sommelier talks about wine. And that sort of literature is wonderful, on a rainy fall day with a cup of Earl Grey. But it is not summer reading. Summer reading is for books that are the junk food of fiction. For chick lit that is as disposable and short-lived as Chicklet gum. For books that would make your beloved, bearded, bespectacled, beat-poet-loving college lit professor cry tears of shame. For books that you won’t weep over if they fall into the pool or get washed away by a wave. For books that you only read on vacation because who cares what strangers think of you based on the title of your newest beach read?

So shake off your I-should-be-better-educated-than-this guilt and pick up a pastel-colored paperback. Call it a vacation for your literary sensibilities and return to more sensible fare after your reading-in-a-chaise-lounge tan has faded.