This is something I wrote. It may or may not be semi-autobiographical.
I am reading a book. Here I am, sitting outside, reading on a balmy summer day. Any passerby could plainly see how smart I look—especially because I am wearing glasses right now—as I sit and hold this book in my hand. An observer might also note that the book I am reading won a Pulitzer Prize, which is indicated by the gold sticker on the cover. It is clear that, not only am I reading, but also that I am engaged with a particular caliber of book that puts me in a certain highbrow station of intellectual life. I hope everyone is able to recognize this. It’s a shame those stickers aren’t bigger. I will angle it in the direction of the street.
This book is pretty good. I like that there are footnotes. It might seem like it is taking me a long time to read each page. That’s not because I am slow, or because I am not plunging my soul into the cavernous depths of the language’s wisdom-spout. It is because I am reading ever so carefully and looking down at all of these footnotes. And as I do so, I can’t help but think to myself, “It’s readers like me who should be appreciated in this world. Unlike the pitiful masses, I bother to give each word due consideration, out of respect for the author. I am doing a very good job reading this book. Later I will treat myself to an ice cream sandwich as a reward.”
Now that I’m a college graduate—cum laude, but who’s counting, right?—nobody really knows how good a reader I am anymore. I’ve been reading ever since I was twelve, and I haven’t stopped since. Come to think of it, the longest thing I ever read was the first sentence of Swann’s Way by Marcy Proust. In a sense, it’s a shame that I won’t be writing papers ever again. How will anyone know about all of these notion explosions I have while I read? Sometimes they’re super insightful. I’m glad that reading is so fulfilling. It really gives me a chance to wade through my wisdom streams.
Not that I’m thinking to myself while I’m reading this book. Out of respect for the writer’s craft, I’m definitely giving the text my full and complete attention. But sometimes part of reading is actually not reading at all. It’s allowing a writing dollop to be smeared upon your cranium in some unexpected way, and lead you into personal thoughts that are not directly related to the book. I think that is a very healthy and valid approach to reading.
You might catch me at a moment when I am holding the book but staring into space. You’re catching me at one of those instants of personal insight. Obviously I am a voracious reader, and just pausing for a moment for very profound reflection.
I have so many books these days that I don’t even have enough room on my shelf to fit all of them. This kind of dedication to the written word is apparent to those of you who might pass me by, and see me reading here on this afternoon even though there is an America’s Next Top Model marathon on TV.
I think models should be shorter, and less skinny. As a short, not-so-skinny person, it’s often difficult for me to tell whether clothes will look good on me based on how they look on models. Don’t get me wrong, I am not all that concerned since I don’t care much about shopping anyway. Most of my time is spent reading. But a person has to buy clothes, obviously, and I think it would be more efficient if models had more varied body types so I wouldn’t have to spend so many hours trying on things that look terrible on me.
I wish I looked better in that dress I tried on the other day. It would have looked great with this book I am reading. I can see myself sitting here this afternoon, wearing that dress, and reading this book. And people would walk by and think, “That girl is so pretty and smart. Good for her! Some pretty girls don’t bother to intellectually elevate themselves by reading, but it sure is nice to see one who does.”
Anyway, back to the story. Wait—who is this character? I must have missed it when he was introduced. Oh well, time to turn the page.
