Book Fiend Blues
A good book will kick you right in the crotch and slap you square across the face, for good measure. A good book is a dose of rock 'n' roll in its own right.
Reading has always been in my blood. Like a venereal disease you can't shake, I caught the fever when I was twelve. Two words: William Shakespeare. Somehow I had the harebrained idea to read the complete unabridged works of Shakespeare in a year's time. Did I even know who The Bard was before that? Hard to say. Sure, his name is kicked around virtually everywhere. But hey, the man made up a significant portion of the English language. You probably can't go an hour without using a word he invented. Whatever it was, that massive 1,229 page book was staring me down from its perch on the shelf. If I hadn't gotten to it first, it surely would have hunted me down. Piquing the interest of my grandfather and spurned on by the $100 dollars he pledged to give me if I completed the task within the allotted year, there was no turning back. Consequently, I used that $100 to put towards the first thing I ever bought in my life: the complete music catalogue of The Beatles. See, books are rock 'n' roll. That year I spent countless hours fraternizing with despicable rogues, bawdy wenches, and lovelorn knaves.
From there it didn't take long until I was slingshotted into Kerouac, Abbey, Steinbeck, Faulkner. How I got away with it is a mystery. Filling my hours with tales of murder, incest, eco-terrorism, rape, racism—American reality—I grew up fast. But when you start with the giants of literature, there's no turning back. The flowery, modern, NY Times feel-good book club shit doesn't cut it. Like a dope fiend, diluting yourself will only get you killed.
I've always had a good imagination—probably one that's too good for my own good. When I crack open that spine, and the prose washes over me, it's no longer down the rabbit hole, it's drowning in the rabbit hole. All sense of time is lost. Have I been reading for days, or hours? Weeks? Finishing a book spits you out into a dangerous road; what's next? And the list never ends. One good book leads to 10 more good books. And the real gems HAVE to be read again, and again, and again. I've come to an almost ritualistic reading of Dorian Gray and Catcher in the Rye annually. These books creep into the blood stream, bore into bone marrow, until they become intwined in the very fabric of your being.
For two great years as a missionary, I flirted with agony, because I couldn't get my hands on Shakespeare. My first night back in Uncle Sam's dilapidated dream palace, wracked with jet lag, I escaped back into the madness of Elizabethan England. School nearly kills me every semester, for the fact that I don't have time to read what I want. For the past who knows how many years, the moment break begins, I voraciously devour whatever book I've been salivating over. Like an uncontrollable lust, nothing can stop me from ripping my way through the pages. With delusional book-fiends, such as myself, running around rampant, it's no wonder Mr. Bezos created an empire.
The kingpin book dealer.
I only wish I could join the great historians of human condition, the spinsters of tales, the immortal authors, in their endeavors. I don't know that I have it in me. But I pray—maybe one day.
Reading has always been in my blood. Like a venereal disease you can't shake, I caught the fever when I was twelve. Two words: William Shakespeare. Somehow I had the harebrained idea to read the complete unabridged works of Shakespeare in a year's time. Did I even know who The Bard was before that? Hard to say. Sure, his name is kicked around virtually everywhere. But hey, the man made up a significant portion of the English language. You probably can't go an hour without using a word he invented. Whatever it was, that massive 1,229 page book was staring me down from its perch on the shelf. If I hadn't gotten to it first, it surely would have hunted me down. Piquing the interest of my grandfather and spurned on by the $100 dollars he pledged to give me if I completed the task within the allotted year, there was no turning back. Consequently, I used that $100 to put towards the first thing I ever bought in my life: the complete music catalogue of The Beatles. See, books are rock 'n' roll. That year I spent countless hours fraternizing with despicable rogues, bawdy wenches, and lovelorn knaves.
From there it didn't take long until I was slingshotted into Kerouac, Abbey, Steinbeck, Faulkner. How I got away with it is a mystery. Filling my hours with tales of murder, incest, eco-terrorism, rape, racism—American reality—I grew up fast. But when you start with the giants of literature, there's no turning back. The flowery, modern, NY Times feel-good book club shit doesn't cut it. Like a dope fiend, diluting yourself will only get you killed.
I've always had a good imagination—probably one that's too good for my own good. When I crack open that spine, and the prose washes over me, it's no longer down the rabbit hole, it's drowning in the rabbit hole. All sense of time is lost. Have I been reading for days, or hours? Weeks? Finishing a book spits you out into a dangerous road; what's next? And the list never ends. One good book leads to 10 more good books. And the real gems HAVE to be read again, and again, and again. I've come to an almost ritualistic reading of Dorian Gray and Catcher in the Rye annually. These books creep into the blood stream, bore into bone marrow, until they become intwined in the very fabric of your being.
For two great years as a missionary, I flirted with agony, because I couldn't get my hands on Shakespeare. My first night back in Uncle Sam's dilapidated dream palace, wracked with jet lag, I escaped back into the madness of Elizabethan England. School nearly kills me every semester, for the fact that I don't have time to read what I want. For the past who knows how many years, the moment break begins, I voraciously devour whatever book I've been salivating over. Like an uncontrollable lust, nothing can stop me from ripping my way through the pages. With delusional book-fiends, such as myself, running around rampant, it's no wonder Mr. Bezos created an empire.
The kingpin book dealer.
I only wish I could join the great historians of human condition, the spinsters of tales, the immortal authors, in their endeavors. I don't know that I have it in me. But I pray—maybe one day.
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