I am continually reminded throughout my life that others know me better than I know myself. No matter the trappings of life that I choose to surround myself with, or the current situation. They know how my mind works. The foremost of these (far beyond the nearest of comaprison) is my beloved sister Molly.
She recently (and yes I call several months ago recent, since she was herself a year late in sending it) sent me a novel crafted around the idea that the novels of Jane Austen can teach us how to live life. While mildly tedious and repetitive in some parts it is a delightful memoir that I throroughly enjoyed.
I wonder if my sister while reading it mentally put quotations around certain passages and aimed them in my direction. I would not have been surprised to see whole paragraphs highlited with a sidebar comment- "This is for you little brother!" Beyond the obvious dicussions of pride, prejudice, love, forbearance, etc... was another lesson that I realize I haven't fully learned. How to read a book. Molly, I hope that you remember the time many years ago that I laughed at you and poked fun over your reading a hefty tome titled How to Read a Book. For that instance I apollogize. I do not apologize for trying to sneak into your room to turn off the Titanic sountrack. You tortured me with it for months. I despised you.
I grew up in a literary family. In comparison to many others we read a lot. A vast amount in fact. I was a voracious reader in my youth and prided myself on being above my peers in that respect. I read longer, more complex, and higher grade level books, and thought that made me better. I was a snob, if that term can be used in referance to a twelve-year-old. Having nothing else to feel superior about I clung to it. My junior year in AP english language we would analyze a new passage from a novel every day. I recall feeling so superior when I was the only one who could recognize a passage and already knew what to say.The best example is the Mr. Collins proposal. I'd read the book and seen the film multiple times. Needless to say, my level of knowledge of 18th century english romance did little to increase my social standing. If I'd been smarter I would've kept my mouth shut and feigned indifference like the rest of the class. The annoyance I feel now is that that sense of academic superiority is now without merit and has no real foundation amongst people of my age group.
While at 16 I was beyond my peers in literary study, I am now immensely behind. I can hardly feel guilty for the fact itself. Most of my then-peers went on to college and spent years of their lives dedicated specifically to furthering their knowledge of the written word. I rowed around the Atlantic with 140 guys. Boat quote- "We can't watch that movie tonight, it doesn't have any titties in it!!" True story. Not exactly intellectually stimulating.
The question resulting from this reflection is- what do I do now? I want to learn how to read again. I used to mistakenly equate volume with knowledge. If I simply stuffed more words into my brain it made me a better reader. When I was in high school that was enough, but is it still? Thoughts?
Current read is DH Lawrence- Sons and Lovers. It appeared on my shelf from somewhere. Molly, was that you?
She recently (and yes I call several months ago recent, since she was herself a year late in sending it) sent me a novel crafted around the idea that the novels of Jane Austen can teach us how to live life. While mildly tedious and repetitive in some parts it is a delightful memoir that I throroughly enjoyed.
I wonder if my sister while reading it mentally put quotations around certain passages and aimed them in my direction. I would not have been surprised to see whole paragraphs highlited with a sidebar comment- "This is for you little brother!" Beyond the obvious dicussions of pride, prejudice, love, forbearance, etc... was another lesson that I realize I haven't fully learned. How to read a book. Molly, I hope that you remember the time many years ago that I laughed at you and poked fun over your reading a hefty tome titled How to Read a Book. For that instance I apollogize. I do not apologize for trying to sneak into your room to turn off the Titanic sountrack. You tortured me with it for months. I despised you.
I grew up in a literary family. In comparison to many others we read a lot. A vast amount in fact. I was a voracious reader in my youth and prided myself on being above my peers in that respect. I read longer, more complex, and higher grade level books, and thought that made me better. I was a snob, if that term can be used in referance to a twelve-year-old. Having nothing else to feel superior about I clung to it. My junior year in AP english language we would analyze a new passage from a novel every day. I recall feeling so superior when I was the only one who could recognize a passage and already knew what to say.The best example is the Mr. Collins proposal. I'd read the book and seen the film multiple times. Needless to say, my level of knowledge of 18th century english romance did little to increase my social standing. If I'd been smarter I would've kept my mouth shut and feigned indifference like the rest of the class. The annoyance I feel now is that that sense of academic superiority is now without merit and has no real foundation amongst people of my age group.
While at 16 I was beyond my peers in literary study, I am now immensely behind. I can hardly feel guilty for the fact itself. Most of my then-peers went on to college and spent years of their lives dedicated specifically to furthering their knowledge of the written word. I rowed around the Atlantic with 140 guys. Boat quote- "We can't watch that movie tonight, it doesn't have any titties in it!!" True story. Not exactly intellectually stimulating.
The question resulting from this reflection is- what do I do now? I want to learn how to read again. I used to mistakenly equate volume with knowledge. If I simply stuffed more words into my brain it made me a better reader. When I was in high school that was enough, but is it still? Thoughts?
Current read is DH Lawrence- Sons and Lovers. It appeared on my shelf from somewhere. Molly, was that you?
Hellz no, it wasn't me. I hate D.H. Lawrence with the hate of a thousand hates. Well, at least his literature.
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