Do you ever go through a period of time where all you want to do is read? For, I don't know, a while (so descriptive), I've had to force myself to finish any book I start. Which is not like me. But lately, I've been reading CONSTANTLY. I take a book with me everywhere, just in case I have some extra time to read a couple of pages. I even had my book at the grocery store the other day but I didn't take it out of my purse because I was afraid I'd accidentally run over a small child or an old person with my cart if I tried to read and shop at the same time. Not that I'm particularly worried about running over a small child (because they're everywhere and if me hitting them with my cart teaches them NOT to run in front of things with wheels then I am happy to perform that service) but I'd feel bad about running over someone's sweet old grandma who is only at the store because her dear grandchildren are coming to visit this weekend, and so she risked the cold and the snow and the roads to come all the way to Kroger to buy ingredients for her world famous oatmeal raisin cookies. Oh, Grandma, you are just too sweet for words.
Wow, ok. So all weekend I've been reading. I finished one book and am halfway through another and I'm trying to mainline them as quickly as possible because I want to start something new. Sometimes I wish I could have books shot directly into my brain, like how they gave Keanu Reeves all the kung fu knowledge in The Matrix. And after they did it I'd be all, "I know exactly what twists and turns and misunderstandings were necessary for Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy to end up together," only that doesn't roll off the tongue quite like, "I know kung fu." Ah well.
Last night I was pouring over my bookshelves and I found a copy of The Great Gatsby that had fallen behind a row of other books. The Great Gatsby! Shoved behind other books! Blasphemy! To be completely honest, I didn't even know I owned a copy of The Great Gatsby. And I'm pretty sure the last (and only) time I ever read it was in high school and I didn't like it because in high school I was all, "Symbolism? Pshaw! Symbolism is stupid! I hate symbolism!" and then I went to college and became an English major and that's when symbolism and I began our torrid love affair. Anyway, so The Great Gatsby is next on my list of books to read because I think I'll like it more as a sophisticated and well-traveled (ha) twentysomething than I did as a smart-assed fifteen-year-old know-it-all. Damn, that was a lot of hyphens! Did you see that? Amazing. Anyway, the symbolism, right. I had this one professor in college that was way, way into symbolism. She was symbolism's bitch. Also, her husband was a professor, too, but not so much into symbolism. He was completely insane, though. Katie, you know who I'm talking about? YOU KNOW who I'm talking about. Anyway, the lady professor? You could make up ANYTHING and she'd just nod her head and say, "yes, yes, that is an interesting point." Sometimes when she'd call on me I would make up the most off the wall thing I could think of just to see if she'd agree with me. She usually did. Probably because she was high all the time.
Symbolism and I almost broke up over Moby-Dick. That book almost killed me. You know, if I remember right, that was the time I was reading Moby-Dick for one class, Hamlet for another, and Crime & Punishment for a class on Russian Literature that I only took because I thought it would be easy. Russian Literature. Easy. Ha! So, yeah. Moby-Dick, Hamlet, and Crime & Punishment. The Bermuda Triangle OF DEATH AND DEPRESSION. I doubt I was very much fun to be around during this time, namely because I was FUCKING DEPRESSED as a result of the murder and the crazy and the dying dying everybody dying. You know what, though? I kept my copy of Moby-Dick, not because I'll ever read it again, but as proof that I actually did read it. You can tell because of all the clever notes I wrote in the margins. Such as "ew" in reference to a description of a gaping wound and "haha" in reference to the words "sperm whale."
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