Mine is an enviably privileged if essentially fuddy-duddy life built around reading, writing, daydreaming and occasional household chores. Dull routine suits me. Nonetheless, as D.H. Lawrence declared in “Sea and Sardinia,” every so often there “comes over one an absolute necessity to move.” At such times, I frequently travel to some sort of literary conference to hobnob with old friends, make new ones and, more often than not, just lounge around in restaurants or bars talking about books.