07-04-2008, 05:32 AM
Posted on my blog, though it might spark an interesting discussion. A bit heavier fare than we're used to in the Asylum, but let's see if anyone reads this.
------------------------
I realized something today, as I crept my chair away from the advancing sunlight, listening to Simon & Garfunkel and watching people line up for gas.
I don't like to read.
Ironically, I found this out while reading a book that I'm enjoying very much: A Concise History of Major League Baseball.
Thing is, I own a lot of books, probably too many. Between my local library (which sells extras that are donated for about a quarter) and my church yard sale (at which I buy entire tables of books for pennies apiece, when all the "good ones" are weeded through), I must have close to a thousand, when everything is tallied. I've got stacks of Grisham behind my folded up ping-pong table. I've got an two copies of two different Billy Graham biographies. I've got countless fantasy works that I started and could not finish.
Thing is, I just don't like to read. My attention span is entirely too short. For every book that I finish, there are probably ten that I don't. For example, I love To Kill a Mockingbird, but I simply can't force myself to sit down and read the final half of the book. Other things, such as Anne Rice's "Interview with a Vampire" (which I had recommended to me by someone who isn't creepy), and Eragon, are left in a similar situation.
There is, of course, an intense pressure to enjoy reading. To admit that one does not like to read is akin to saying "I am stupid". To be educated is to be well-read; to be able to quote Shakespeare and Augustine.
Now, I'm about to make a distinction that will likely sound very cheap and meaningless, and maybe it is. But right now, it's the only thing I can figure.
I don't like to read, but I love to THINK.
Let's go back to Harper Lee. When I read the first few chapters of Mockingbird, my mind was unlocked with this entirely new world that was so different from my own, yet not so far away. I found myself reading a few pages, then drifting into a daydream, imagining the characters interacting with one another, driven by any number of passions. Eventually, I would be so disconnected from the words on the page that I would have to re-read the chapter to reorient myself with the story, then after another few pages, the process begins again.
Then, I stop. I remember Mockingbird well enough; I read the first third of it. And from there, I imagine. No, I really don't know who Boo Radley is. I haven't a clue what the conclusion is (if there are any who are eloquent and love the book, do let me know). But I'm not driven to understand the plot, I'm driven to understand the characters, and the world they live in.
I haven't the drive to complete Mockingbird, but I did finish Wuthering Heights (for some odd reason). And here, I was stunned. What was the emotion between Heathcliff and Catherine? Surely it isn't love? It's not the Nicholas Sparks, Celine Dion, 'thy lips are a red, red rose' type of love. Each character was entirely flawed (except, perhaps, the maid), and for all of that, deeply fascinating. Once again, I found myself daydreaming, but the story was entirely about the characters, and not the plot.
And yet, I cannot finish Persuasion, no matter how much I try. And such "incompletions" are not limited only to what I read, but also music, movie, and that under-represented artistic medium, the video game. I have notebooks filled with writing concepts though of, and never finished. I used to think it was simply because I have a work ethic problem (and, it seems, I do). But now, I think it is more that my goal lies beyond the scope of any of these books. As such, these works of art are simply the means by which I am catapulted into a greater understanding of life, of humanity, of the world we live in, of the different experiences present, of how people can possibly hate, of how people can possibly love, of war, of peace, of death.
The world is a big place. Human emotion is deep and wide (deep and wide, there's a fountain flowing deep and wide). And there is death. And we forget about it, so that we can go on our days in peace, until someone close flies away, and we remember for a short time, only to forget again. We do a lot of talking about honesty and straightforwardness, but everything is covered in an opaque tarp.
This is a bit stream-of-consciousness. I can't imagine anyone will actually read it (particularly due to the inexcusable number of "I's" distributed throughout), but now that it is complete, I understand my position a little better.
Maybe one day I'll finish Mockingbird. Maybe not. But I'll never forget Atticus.
------------------------
I realized something today, as I crept my chair away from the advancing sunlight, listening to Simon & Garfunkel and watching people line up for gas.
I don't like to read.
Ironically, I found this out while reading a book that I'm enjoying very much: A Concise History of Major League Baseball.
Thing is, I own a lot of books, probably too many. Between my local library (which sells extras that are donated for about a quarter) and my church yard sale (at which I buy entire tables of books for pennies apiece, when all the "good ones" are weeded through), I must have close to a thousand, when everything is tallied. I've got stacks of Grisham behind my folded up ping-pong table. I've got an two copies of two different Billy Graham biographies. I've got countless fantasy works that I started and could not finish.
Thing is, I just don't like to read. My attention span is entirely too short. For every book that I finish, there are probably ten that I don't. For example, I love To Kill a Mockingbird, but I simply can't force myself to sit down and read the final half of the book. Other things, such as Anne Rice's "Interview with a Vampire" (which I had recommended to me by someone who isn't creepy), and Eragon, are left in a similar situation.
There is, of course, an intense pressure to enjoy reading. To admit that one does not like to read is akin to saying "I am stupid". To be educated is to be well-read; to be able to quote Shakespeare and Augustine.
Now, I'm about to make a distinction that will likely sound very cheap and meaningless, and maybe it is. But right now, it's the only thing I can figure.
I don't like to read, but I love to THINK.
Let's go back to Harper Lee. When I read the first few chapters of Mockingbird, my mind was unlocked with this entirely new world that was so different from my own, yet not so far away. I found myself reading a few pages, then drifting into a daydream, imagining the characters interacting with one another, driven by any number of passions. Eventually, I would be so disconnected from the words on the page that I would have to re-read the chapter to reorient myself with the story, then after another few pages, the process begins again.
Then, I stop. I remember Mockingbird well enough; I read the first third of it. And from there, I imagine. No, I really don't know who Boo Radley is. I haven't a clue what the conclusion is (if there are any who are eloquent and love the book, do let me know). But I'm not driven to understand the plot, I'm driven to understand the characters, and the world they live in.
I haven't the drive to complete Mockingbird, but I did finish Wuthering Heights (for some odd reason). And here, I was stunned. What was the emotion between Heathcliff and Catherine? Surely it isn't love? It's not the Nicholas Sparks, Celine Dion, 'thy lips are a red, red rose' type of love. Each character was entirely flawed (except, perhaps, the maid), and for all of that, deeply fascinating. Once again, I found myself daydreaming, but the story was entirely about the characters, and not the plot.
And yet, I cannot finish Persuasion, no matter how much I try. And such "incompletions" are not limited only to what I read, but also music, movie, and that under-represented artistic medium, the video game. I have notebooks filled with writing concepts though of, and never finished. I used to think it was simply because I have a work ethic problem (and, it seems, I do). But now, I think it is more that my goal lies beyond the scope of any of these books. As such, these works of art are simply the means by which I am catapulted into a greater understanding of life, of humanity, of the world we live in, of the different experiences present, of how people can possibly hate, of how people can possibly love, of war, of peace, of death.
The world is a big place. Human emotion is deep and wide (deep and wide, there's a fountain flowing deep and wide). And there is death. And we forget about it, so that we can go on our days in peace, until someone close flies away, and we remember for a short time, only to forget again. We do a lot of talking about honesty and straightforwardness, but everything is covered in an opaque tarp.
This is a bit stream-of-consciousness. I can't imagine anyone will actually read it (particularly due to the inexcusable number of "I's" distributed throughout), but now that it is complete, I understand my position a little better.
Maybe one day I'll finish Mockingbird. Maybe not. But I'll never forget Atticus.


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