Lately, I've had the most bizarre thought processes. Characters have generated seemingly spontaneously based on things I've heard and people I've recently encountered. It's like they've somehow gotten into my head. I don't know them very well yet so they all seem a little static, but they are beginning to develop and I fear that when they have grown into full-fledged characters, they may begin harrassing me until I let them out.
Maybe I'll write a book someday. Someday far, far away from today.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Thursday, June 02, 2005
i'll get right to that.
All around me, summer reading lists seem to be on the mind of everyone I encounter. Some are sharing what's on theirs, and others are mocking the futile vanity of said lists. Whatever. I started making mine in January, and for some months, it lived and grew inside my head, until finally, in a moment faintly resembling a step of commitment, I put pen to torn scrap of already-undone-list-covered scratch paper, and recorded this burgeoning mental memorandum.
The list divided itself easily into three categories: life-changing theology, mind-numbing, fluffy (yet well written) entertainment, and thought-provoking literature, which align themselves (though not respectively) with my current infatuation for wasting time, my hate affair with the classics, and my desire for a love affair with the Holy Spirit. And a miscellaneous, unnamed fringe category containing the Chicago Manual of Style, for my perennial syntax fixation.
Now for me, the books on my summer reading list will never really all be read. Not by me, at least. I put them there because I hope to read them. For every book I put on the list, I have dozens more that go to the Books I Want to Read Before I Die or Am Too Old to Be Influenced to Change. (Really, I have that list. It's the place I can go at any moment if I suddenly have time to read, but can't think of a book. Like, if I'm suddenly stricken mute and can't work anymore. Maybe I should rename the list Books I Think Sound Cool and the summer reading list, Books Marginally More Likely To Be Read.)
The point is, in an honest, real moment, I'll admit that I'm not actually going to be able to get to all the books that make it to the summer reading list. This year's list, for instance, includes some classic literature. I don't like reading classics. They make my head hurt, and they remind me of high school where we had to analyze the themes and whatnot, and I never saw the themes. All I saw were intricately structured sentences that tickled my brain and begged me to reread and mentally diagram them. In the end, I would always get the basic story line, but not enough to sit and analyze it.
So when, several months ago, in the safety of frigid, school-infested January, I added Fyodor Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, of which I can pronounce neither the author's name nor the title, to my summer reading list, it was mostly just to make myself feel. . .noble, I guess. I'm not certain I really intended to get my hands on a copy of the daunting dissertation and read it from start to finish.
That's all changed.
May curses and blessings from the heavens which so indiscriminately rain down both on us all fall on my dear Nebraskan kindred spirit who heard of, yea, was even the impetus behind the January insertion of, Dostoevsky on my List. She took a philosophy class last semester and apparently they examined this work in some detail. (Maybe it was even the sole text. I don't know.) So she heard that I want to read it. She decided she ought to re-read it. And then she crossed the line. She purchased a beautiful cloth bound, ribbon-markered copy of it, inscribed my name and a thoughtful platitude inside the cover, and mailed it to me, reading schedule enclosed.
There's no turning back now. I'm obligated. The truth is, I'm terribly grateful. A real friend inspires you to be better than you are and helps you not be mastered by your own demons. And so, knowing that I wish I loved literature and that I wish I were not too lazy to read it, my friend is gently helping me become the person I wish I already were. We'll see how it works, but I'm guessing I read the whole thing. Which makes me think. . . hmm. . .what if I could just get my professors to buy my textbooks and mail them to me. . .
The list divided itself easily into three categories: life-changing theology, mind-numbing, fluffy (yet well written) entertainment, and thought-provoking literature, which align themselves (though not respectively) with my current infatuation for wasting time, my hate affair with the classics, and my desire for a love affair with the Holy Spirit. And a miscellaneous, unnamed fringe category containing the Chicago Manual of Style, for my perennial syntax fixation.
Now for me, the books on my summer reading list will never really all be read. Not by me, at least. I put them there because I hope to read them. For every book I put on the list, I have dozens more that go to the Books I Want to Read Before I Die or Am Too Old to Be Influenced to Change. (Really, I have that list. It's the place I can go at any moment if I suddenly have time to read, but can't think of a book. Like, if I'm suddenly stricken mute and can't work anymore. Maybe I should rename the list Books I Think Sound Cool and the summer reading list, Books Marginally More Likely To Be Read.)
The point is, in an honest, real moment, I'll admit that I'm not actually going to be able to get to all the books that make it to the summer reading list. This year's list, for instance, includes some classic literature. I don't like reading classics. They make my head hurt, and they remind me of high school where we had to analyze the themes and whatnot, and I never saw the themes. All I saw were intricately structured sentences that tickled my brain and begged me to reread and mentally diagram them. In the end, I would always get the basic story line, but not enough to sit and analyze it.
So when, several months ago, in the safety of frigid, school-infested January, I added Fyodor Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, of which I can pronounce neither the author's name nor the title, to my summer reading list, it was mostly just to make myself feel. . .noble, I guess. I'm not certain I really intended to get my hands on a copy of the daunting dissertation and read it from start to finish.
That's all changed.
May curses and blessings from the heavens which so indiscriminately rain down both on us all fall on my dear Nebraskan kindred spirit who heard of, yea, was even the impetus behind the January insertion of, Dostoevsky on my List. She took a philosophy class last semester and apparently they examined this work in some detail. (Maybe it was even the sole text. I don't know.) So she heard that I want to read it. She decided she ought to re-read it. And then she crossed the line. She purchased a beautiful cloth bound, ribbon-markered copy of it, inscribed my name and a thoughtful platitude inside the cover, and mailed it to me, reading schedule enclosed.
There's no turning back now. I'm obligated. The truth is, I'm terribly grateful. A real friend inspires you to be better than you are and helps you not be mastered by your own demons. And so, knowing that I wish I loved literature and that I wish I were not too lazy to read it, my friend is gently helping me become the person I wish I already were. We'll see how it works, but I'm guessing I read the whole thing. Which makes me think. . . hmm. . .what if I could just get my professors to buy my textbooks and mail them to me. . .
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