If there's one addiction I can publicly admit to, it's books. Binge-reading has been the name of the game for me lately--partly for class, partly for my own benefit. One of the biggest kickbacks of being an English major is getting to conspicuously consume all the literature I can and get graded for having an opinion on it. For a bookworm such as I am, this is no small raison d'être. Rather, I feel sometimes that I couldn't pay BYU enough for allowing me to go to class everyday and talk about something that matters to me. Sometimes.
The three books I finished today are The Turn of the Screw, The Rise of Silas Lapham, and Xenocide. The first two are for my American lit class and the last because I somehow got sucked into the sci-fi vortex of Orson Scott Card's Ender series again. Ender's Game is undoubtedly one of my favorite sci-fi books, but reading the sequels is like reading a faint, dashed-off copy of the original. But here I am about to begin the fourth book in the series. Whatever. Card brings up surprising metaphysical and ethical questions that are interesting to think about in the context of space exploration and colonizing worlds after Earth.
After finishing those books today, I'm going to continue to read Veronika Decides to Die by Paolo Coelho (which I love so far), and What is the What by Dave Eggers (thanks to Asher Lev's recommendation. Non sequitur for Ashley: I still remember those debates we had in AP about abstract art. We should do it again sometime...). On my last journey through the commercialized-yet-oh-so-necessary world of Barnes & Noble, I also bought The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova, but I'm saving that for when I finish the others. It seems promising though; who am I to turn down a legitimate book about vampires?
Speaking of literature, I had a really good talk with my American lit professor yesterday. I went in to chat about my conference paper (the "male gaze" in Ethan Frome, yes ma'am!), but we ended up talking about why I don't take any poetry classes. He told me that he would take me into his advanced 319 creative writing class; it makes my fragile student ego feel more validated to have him consider me, but I feel myself holding back. Having others read, let alone want to publish, my poetry makes my stomach turn. I'm still trying to figure out my motives for not wanting to promote this part of myself, but for now I told my prof that I would consider it at least. It's a start. He also is (slightly) forcing me to take English 452, which is an advanced literary theory/criticism class. I told him if Matt Wickman or Rick Duerden are teaching it, I'm in. I love, seriously LOVE lit theory. When I'm not reading novels, I'm reading critical studies and books on theories. My dream job would be some kind of book critic for the New Yorker. And editor-in-chief, hah!
A final mentioning that falls within the scope of my life's quest for knowledge: Okay this just has to do with London. I was reading in the London Walks book tonight, and some people need to stop thinking I'm joking when I talk about never coming back from London. There may be some permanent residence-ing on my part when I get there. I just love it too much, and I haven't even gotten there yet. Just preparing you for the inevitable, people.
Lastly, please listen to Ryan Adams' Heartbreaker.
Album of this week of my life.
