I love my fellow Red Line passengers. The academic line (it runs through Tufts, MIT and Harvard) is like a library in the morning, full of smartypants reading in such an orderly fashion that I feel like I’m in a school with corporal punishment. At one point, I glance down the row of seats to see every last passenger’s head in a book. We’re a lucubratory bunch—or just averse to boredom. Without reading material, I feel desperate; being bookless on the Red Line makes it worse, those other passengers just rubbing it in with their hefty reading material; I’d even read the free Metro when pressed. But on the Red Line, it’s best to have a book. But not just any book. These are elite readers, after all. Something like Proust’s Remembrances of Things Past will do nicely.