I am not interested in reading bullshit. Life is too short for that. Nonetheless, there are the two overarching categories of books read. The first and larger is the category to which I refer as “find ’em-fuck ’em-forget ’em.” That is not to say the books in this category were simply light entertainment for me. Many were intelligent, informative on the human condition, well plotted, sylishly composed, and on and on. Good books, in other words. Freedom by Johathan Franzen would be a novel that I recently read that stands as a good example.
I have no idea how to label the second smaller category. They are the books that had a profound impact on me, actually changed me in some way. Not always for the better as the phrase “changed for the better” is generally employed, I might add. These are not books that I read but rather reread. Upon the rare occasions of encountering one of these books, I feel compelled to write something about it. It helps me to come to terms with the book.
What to do with these writings? Calling them “essays” unjusitifiably dignifies them. “Put them up as pages in the blog,” I said to myself in reply. “Who knows? There may be one solitary, emotionally crippled misfit out there, one reclusive, blundering dreamer–or perhaps a monk who derives his only relief from his celibacy from classic novels, lively non-fiction, and internet porn–someone in any event who would be interested in visiting one of these pages.”
The pages below constitute the first installment of this endeavor.