Sunday, September 28, 2008
you know, i finished moby dick, and loved it. really. for all of the intimidation that comes with the name "melville," i find it misguided: he's one funny sum-bitch. but, after putting the great american novel to bed, i wanted something a little lighter; sooo, i read the 39 steps. by...some dude who was chancellor-governor general cap'n crunch of canada, or something. it was cute - chases, guns...i think...i don't really remember.
anyway, i decided to dive into some dickens. i tried reading great expectations back a few years ago. didn't work. but here i am, older, wiser, more patient, so...another go-around?
i picked up tale of two cities at housing works - my favorite spot to pick up books in the city - and got into it. i tried casting it in my head. read it cinematically. imagined the big-budgeted, so-accurate-in-detail-that-the-actor's-boots-have-period-mud-on-them film that could be made. by, like...whoever does those other boleyn, dutchess-type movies.
and i was bored out of my fucking skull.
am i just too dumb? shouldn't i, as an english graduate, plow through and realize the gorgeous, wonderfully rich language and characters of one of the greatest...no. hells no. i guess i figured that i had to - if i wanted to join some imaginary club of intellectuals - read dickens, appreciate it, and weigh my life in the resulting apotheosis about the world revealed to me by his droll, humorless blocks of letters. and aside from that, i feel guilty if i don't finish a book. i did that all the time in college, and i'm trying to correct those opportunities to have finished books the first time i came around to them.
so now i'm trying to allow myself to say: if i'm not having fun, ditch. so i ditched. sorry, charlie. i'm now reading an arsonist's guide to writers' homes in new england. it's fun.