On reading

There was a time when I was a good student of literature.   I read voraciously, anything I could get my hands on.  I never failed to complete an assigned book.  On those SRAs, I kicked butt.

But the further along I got in school, the more I began to realize that a lot of the greatness in literature eluded me.  I didn't grasp the symbolism.  I missed foreshadowing.  I didn't catch on to themes.  I couldn't see the common threads across a writer's works.  I enjoyed literature classes primarily because they'd help point all these things out to me, but I was continually surprised to have so little to contribute.

I'm still that way.  I am a fast reader.  I enjoy books.  But I'm not at all *good* at it.  I am shallow.  I'm not critical; my book club rates books, and I am the easiest grader in the group.  If I want to spark a conversation, I have to go online to find other people's insights, and read them as quotes.  I'm sure as hell not going to dredge up any personal insights worth sharing.  I need a Cliffs Notes for everything.

This drives me crazy about myself.

I should add to my last entry.  I discovered today that I also have a good view of vagrants peeing between the houses.

Squirrels!

One of the pleasures of my new office is that my window faces a residential block which features big trees and some of Ann Arbor's big honkin' squirrels.  I love those crazy rodents, I always have.  And now, when I need a break, I can gaze out the window and watch them frolic.