It wasn’t until I was interviewing an English professor that I realized I miss novels. He asked me if I read “Clay’s Quilt” and seemed shocked when I said “no;” maybe because the author is an Eastern grad, maybe because I seem like the type that would read a lot, I don’t know. It was a sad moment for me.
I really haven’t read a novel in years, unless you count Daniel M. Pinkwater’s “The Snarkout Boys and the Avocado of Death.” No, I take that back, I read “Everything Is Illuminated” over Christmas.
Now I realize between classes and work I have actually read very few novels. Perhaps I should have taken more literature classes.
Maybe I don’t have the time to read, or maybe I just got lazy. I have plenty of books in my dorm room, but they’re mostly poetry and short story collections. I make it a point to read them, but they’re easy reads. I could put them down for weeks and get right back into them because they only require your attention until you finish that poem or story.
But there is nothing like the charm of a good novel, the kind you skip class to read, the kind you take outside to read while lying on a quilt or the kind you pick up only when it storms. Somehow I forgot how amazing they could be.
Luckily for me we only have one more issue of The Progress, and most of my classes don’t have finals during finals week, and then I have an eight-hour flight overseas to catch up on some nice long book reading.
If anyone has a suggestion I’m now making my “To read” list, so feel free to contact me.
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