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There’s something about Sunday night
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Monday, October 31, 2005


I'm ashamed to say this, but I haven't read a real book in about a year. All my co-workers think I'm a bookworm because I read over lunch every day, but of late it's been magazines and trashy novels. I don't have a hour's commute on the train anymore, and the libraries here are worthless.

A real book is something engaging, thought-provoking, or well-read. I'm not much for non-fiction, I just want my novels to be great. I know there's enough good ones out there, that I shouldn't waste my time with crap.

But I haven't been reading. Then last night, I picked up a collection of short stories anthologized by David Sedaris. His intro said something about how stories can save you. It's something I've heard many times, but not thought about recently. But when I opened up the first story, I could see his words in my mind again. As I read it (by Richard Yates, someone I've never read before), the static in my brain smoothed out and I felt so calm. I remembered what good literature can do to you.

It was hard to follow though. I'm scared my brain has turned to mush, that my year of not reading has rendered me incapable of reading something above a sixth-grade level.


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