On Reading The Last White Man by Mohsin Hamid

He closed the app and set his tablet down, a bit worn out from the torrent of pages he had just sped through and he began wondering why the book made him hurry so, so much so that he found he needed to go back sometimes, as a passage would turn in on itself somehow and then find its way back to what was not left off but was just interrupted for a bit and would then keep on going, as the writer probably intended, and it made him think of his time teaching composition in grad school and scribbling comma splice or run-on sentence or comma missing in the margins, which led him to reconsider how he had marked those papers and realized that the writer kept him going and going and going, but not so much going as much as hurrying past clips of four or five words, sometimes twenty or more, past strings of serial-comma phrases but no quotations marks or semicolons and hardly any contractions until he began to feel like he did when he was a college kid himself and his girlfriend was late and they wanted nothing more than getting rid of the exhausting worry confronting what might come after her being late until catching their breath when she finally got a period.