What it means to be a reader

Bloody hell. It is 5:42 p.m. Pacific time, I’ve got a short story class in 45 minutes, and I’m freaking exhausted. Mentally. Yes, I did manage to consume 4 glasses of chablis after seeing “An Inconvenient Truth” (drinking while chatting with a friend, not drowning my depression over global warming). Yes, I put in a full day of typing drivel about actuarials. Yes, I read 300 pages of a book this weekend…

What? you ask. 300 pages. With 100-150 yet to go. And a book I heartily recommend, “They Marched into Sunlight,” by David Maraniss. Neglecting Proust, even, to meet the goal. Could that explain the mental exhaustion?

Well, possibly. But I admit more to twinges of desperation and depression at not having finished the damned thing. I mean, I tried. I devoted as much time and energy as I could in 3 days to putting this one behind me.

And I couldn’t.

Motivated as I was — and am — I simply couldn’t overcome physics, and the act of reading text, word by word, then manually turning a page and starting the process all over again, some 300 times. When I think about approaching Proust — well, it’s like facing the Mount Everest of literature clad in a pair of Tevah sandals.

Okay, I’ve got a short story class to attend now. Rumination central closed for now. To be coherent another day…

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