Not enough hours in the day

There have been times when I've complained about not having anything to read -- or rather not having anything I fancied reading. I'm now having the completely opposite problem. All the books in the photo have arrived in the house over the past couple of weeks and I really want to read them all -- in fact I'm trying to read several of them more or less simultaneously. I loved the look of The Paris Wife, the story of Ernest Hemingway's first marriage, and read a chapter or two but then put it aside because of Persephone Weekend. That also put a stop to Moor Fires, an early novel by EH Young, which was kindly lent to me by Simon of Stuck in a Book. I should be back to them by now but then I picked up a package from Short Books and though I'd dip into We All Ran Into the Sunlight, an intriguing story of a crumbling French chateau and the complex family relationships associated with it -- but a dip became a plunge and I'm finding it impossible to put down. So when am I going to find time for Lucy Caldwell's newly published The Meeting Point, kindly sent by Faber, or Henning Mankell's The Man From Beijing, snatched up in the library, or the delightful looking Girl Reading, which the publishers thought I'd like because it bases all its chapters on paintings of girls and women reading, or Edmund Crispin's classic crime novel The Moving Toyshop, acquired in Blackwell's secondhand department? Or indeed Jane Harris's forthcoming Gillespie and I, which is due to pop through the door any minute?