So wouldn’t it be better for my brain (and maybe the authors) if I kept my stars to myself and composed some slow, patient, handwritten thoughts in a notebook? Or just tell my friends (as opposed to my “friends”) about the book?
You wonder about that NYU freshman kid in the purple sweatshirt and what his story is and whether, to be honest, he’d be more interesting than Bret Easton Ellis because Bret Easton Ellis has kind of just, well, given up, it seemed, which was a horrible thing to think about a guy that was sitting right in front of you…
If everyone in the world got down with their bad self just once a week, we would have no wars. Fact.
The ultimate purpose of language is not destructive but creative, and it is this very power of language which is a fundamental reality upon which any civilized society pivots. It is this reality, so self-evident and yet so fraught with implications, which attracted many of us to the study of words in the first place.
Unfinished books, must you look peevishly at me from your bedside perch of eternal judgment? You represent all that I haven’t done because I’m too busy drinking and watching How I Met Your Mother reruns.
Sometimes I think what a shame it is that comment sections didn’t exist back when classic authors were writing their masterpieces. What a wealth of hilarious and insightful critiques we’re missing out on.
Of ideas embalmed in books, Joyce wrote in Ulysses, “They are still. Once quick in the brains of men. Still: but an itch of death is in them, to tell me in my ear a maudlin tale, urge me to wreak their will.” The vitality, the urgency, of reading books is hard to comprehend for an uninterested observer.