"That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong."
--F. Scott Fitzgerald
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Thursday, December 27, 2012
I fundamentally don't understand people who don't enjoy reading.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
The Relative Size of Fish, Ponds, and Failures
A lot of people who come to Princeton, or at the very least a lot of the people I know at Princeton (this may be more prevalent amongst lower-income students of color than in the general population), went to decent-but-not-spectacular or maybe even totally off-the-map public schools. And this gives lots of us the common experience of having been big fish in tiny little ponds. I got used to being "special" at a young age, being pulled out of class starting in kindergarten to go to a program for academically gifted children, and then tracked into academically rigorous Math and English programs in the 4th grade (with those same kids I'd been seeing in the earlier program), and then switched to an entirely "accelerated" program in 7th grade, interacting with "regular" kids only in Gym, Health, Study Hall, and Electives. The other students in my program and I had special privileges, including the fact that we simply didn't get into trouble. We were kind of untouchable, especially in high school, unless we did something REALLLLLLLY BAD. We were "the AP kids".
And I got used to being praised at school REAL FAST, especially since at home my ex-stepfather's philosophy was "why should I reward you for doing what you're supposed to do?". It was easy to believe there was something special about me, when you pulled me out of class and gave me different teachers so that I wouldn't be contaminated by the commoners or whatever the fuck you thought would happen to me. And we students of the academically rigorous programs were encouraged to develop our other abilities, so all of a sudden we comprised a large number of the athletes, the band geeks, the artists, etc. In the 8th grade I had a solo in the band concert, a bowl that was traveling around at a state-wide college art fair, and had the highest academic average so got to give a speech at Graduation and be in the newspaper. You couldn't tell me I wasn't the shit (at school). School and everything that school embodied was where I shined.
In fact, during my self-deprecating high school years when I tried to tell myself I wasn'tthe shit, I consistently had teachers tell me my dreams weren't high enough, or that I could do more. I'm sure it's just teachers' jobs to encourage students and whatnot, but every single time I take a step back and look at my life, I want to thank Chris Hall for basically laughing at the small liberal arts schools I was looking at and telling me I was Ivy League material. I don't know if I ever would have considered it without him. He was the same man who, after hearing my poetry for the first time, told me I'd end up in Hollywood one day.
Basically, the point I'm trying to get to here is that for the 13 years of my primary and secondary educations, it was incredibly rare for me to hear that I wasn't good at something. "You could do better," were not words that taunted me (while I was at school), though what was praised by my teachers was often found lacking by my mother. "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again," was a refrain I'd heard often as a small child, but one which I never really got to put into practice as a teenager, because not succeeding was unknown to me.
All of this was to say that if there was anything I was unprepared for when I came to Princeton, or even just to the world outside of my hometown, I guess, was being average. Maybe even below average in some instances, depending on the skill sets we're talking about. It wasn't until I came to Princeton Preview and saw what my Astrophysics-major host was like that I realized that being good at something in the context of my high school didn't mean I'd be good at it here, and I had never been bad at anything (but sports, I guess) before. But I could rationalize that and remember that I was at the then-number-one institution in the country and there were bound to be people here that were better than me at some things, and math/science wasn't my strong suit anyway.
I was vastly more underprepared for my writing to be criticized. I had always been the person whose writing was held up as an example for other people to follow in class. My only 5s on AP tests were in English Language and English Literature, my Verbal and Writing sections were higher than my Math section on my SAT, and my high 700s subject test in English Language was one of my biggest accomplishments. Writing was my thing, and no one had ever had anything bad to say about it before. So Writing Seminar basically destroyed my academic self confidence (though I only got at B on my first paper), and that was when it hit me that suddenly I was a small fish in a fucking ocean.
To this day, I really don't handle making mistakes well. I am a planner by nature, and every time something deviates from my plan, I freak the fuck out. When I failed a test in Psych 101 and wound up with the lowest grade I'd ever had in all my years of schooling and my mom didn't find out and the world kept right on moving, I learned that I can fuck shit up from time to time and not die. But I also quit some of the clubs I was involved in and buckled down academically and got straight As and A-s the next semester, so how bout them apples, Princeton University? I saw my failure as a problem and attacked it with a plan. It is still ingrained into every fiber of my being that failure is something to be avoided.
And all of this is why this article I read today resonated with me so well, but also scared the shit out of me. "Why Success Always Starts with Failure" featured an interview with the author of a new book about adaptation and why failure is necessary for growth and success.
The three ways most of us handle failures are very, very bad at teaching us to adapt:
And I got used to being praised at school REAL FAST, especially since at home my ex-stepfather's philosophy was "why should I reward you for doing what you're supposed to do?". It was easy to believe there was something special about me, when you pulled me out of class and gave me different teachers so that I wouldn't be contaminated by the commoners or whatever the fuck you thought would happen to me. And we students of the academically rigorous programs were encouraged to develop our other abilities, so all of a sudden we comprised a large number of the athletes, the band geeks, the artists, etc. In the 8th grade I had a solo in the band concert, a bowl that was traveling around at a state-wide college art fair, and had the highest academic average so got to give a speech at Graduation and be in the newspaper. You couldn't tell me I wasn't the shit (at school). School and everything that school embodied was where I shined.
In fact, during my self-deprecating high school years when I tried to tell myself I wasn't
Basically, the point I'm trying to get to here is that for the 13 years of my primary and secondary educations, it was incredibly rare for me to hear that I wasn't good at something. "You could do better," were not words that taunted me (while I was at school), though what was praised by my teachers was often found lacking by my mother. "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again," was a refrain I'd heard often as a small child, but one which I never really got to put into practice as a teenager, because not succeeding was unknown to me.
All of this was to say that if there was anything I was unprepared for when I came to Princeton, or even just to the world outside of my hometown, I guess, was being average. Maybe even below average in some instances, depending on the skill sets we're talking about. It wasn't until I came to Princeton Preview and saw what my Astrophysics-major host was like that I realized that being good at something in the context of my high school didn't mean I'd be good at it here, and I had never been bad at anything (but sports, I guess) before. But I could rationalize that and remember that I was at the then-number-one institution in the country and there were bound to be people here that were better than me at some things, and math/science wasn't my strong suit anyway.
I was vastly more underprepared for my writing to be criticized. I had always been the person whose writing was held up as an example for other people to follow in class. My only 5s on AP tests were in English Language and English Literature, my Verbal and Writing sections were higher than my Math section on my SAT, and my high 700s subject test in English Language was one of my biggest accomplishments. Writing was my thing, and no one had ever had anything bad to say about it before. So Writing Seminar basically destroyed my academic self confidence (though I only got at B on my first paper), and that was when it hit me that suddenly I was a small fish in a fucking ocean.
To this day, I really don't handle making mistakes well. I am a planner by nature, and every time something deviates from my plan, I freak the fuck out. When I failed a test in Psych 101 and wound up with the lowest grade I'd ever had in all my years of schooling and my mom didn't find out and the world kept right on moving, I learned that I can fuck shit up from time to time and not die. But I also quit some of the clubs I was involved in and buckled down academically and got straight As and A-s the next semester, so how bout them apples, Princeton University? I saw my failure as a problem and attacked it with a plan. It is still ingrained into every fiber of my being that failure is something to be avoided.
And all of this is why this article I read today resonated with me so well, but also scared the shit out of me. "Why Success Always Starts with Failure" featured an interview with the author of a new book about adaptation and why failure is necessary for growth and success.
The three ways most of us handle failures are very, very bad at teaching us to adapt:
We have to learn to fail productively, which reminds me of a line I heard somewhere a long time ago, that someone "tries to fail a little bit better every day.""Denial. "It seems to be the hardest thing in the world to admit we've made a mistake and try to put it right. It requires you to challenge a status quo of your own making."
Chasing your losses. We're so anxious not to "draw a line under a decision we regret" that we end up causing still more damage while trying to erase it. For example, poker players who've just lost some money are primed to make riskier bets than they'd normally take, in a hasty attempt to win the lost money back and "erase" the mistake.
Hedonic editing. When we engage in "hedonic editing," we try to convince ourselves that the mistake doesn't matter, bundling our losses with our gains or finding some way to reinterpret our failures as successes." [I'm so guilty of this one. Rather than call something I did a mistake, I try to focus on what I learned from it and convince myself it was worth having done. I may have learned a lot from it, and it may have been worth doing, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't still regard it as a mistake--that will help me get out of this fear of fucking up.]
"Try new things. "Expose yourself to lots of different ideas and try lots of different approaches, on the grounds that failure is common." [New things intimidate me because I might not be good at them or might not like them, or might generally be made to look like a bumbling idiot because of them. (I'm hard on myself sometimes.)]*audible gulp* And how exactly are we supposed to do that?
Experiment where failure is survivable. "Look for experimental approaches where there's lots to learn - projects with small downsides but bigger upsides. Too often we take on projects where the cost of failure is prohibitive, and just hope for the best."
Recognize when you haven't succeeded. "The third principle is the easiest to state and the hardest to stick to: know when you've failed.""
Gather feedback. "Above all, feedback is essential for determining which experiments have succeeded and which have failed. Get advice, not just from one person, but from several." Some professions have build-in feedback: reviews if you're in the arts, sales and analytics if you release a web product, comments if you're a blogger. If the feedback is harsh, be objective, "take the venom out," and dig out the real advice.He says we need to create "safe spaces to fail." Places where we can mess up and the world won't end.
Remove emotions from the equation. "It's important to be dispassionate: forget whether you're ahead or behind, and try to look at the likely costs and benefits of continuing from when you are."
Don't get too attached to your plan. "There's nothing wrong with a plan, but remember Von Moltke's famous dictum that no plan survives first contact with the enemy. The danger is a plan that seduces us into thinking failure is impossible and adaptation is unnecessary - a kind of ‘Titanic' plan, unsinkable (until it hits the iceberg)." [THIS. RIGHT. HERE. is exactly what happens to me when one of my plans fail. It's like, total system failure and I stop being a functional human being because all of my plans just went out the fucking window and I don't know what to do.]
Practice disciplined pluralism. Markets work by this process, encouraging the exploration of many new ideas as well as the ruthless weeding out of the ones that fall short. "Pluralism works because life is not worth living without new experiences." Try a lot of things, and commit only to what's working.All in all, this sounds like it might be the next self-help book on my reading list, because being afraid to fuck things up is something I really need to work on.
Finding "a safe space to fail is a state of mind." Assuming that you don't operate a nuclear power plant for a living, you can probably infuse a bit more freedom and flexibility into your workday. Give yourself permission to test out a few off-the-wall ideas mixed in with the by-the-book ideas.
Imitate the college experience. "College is an amazing safe space to fail. We are experimenting with new friends, a new city, new hobbies and new ideas - and we'll often mess up academically and socially as a result. But we know that as long as we don't screw up too dramatically, we'll finish college, graduate, and move on - that mix of risk and safety is intoxicating. Yet somehow as we grow older we lose it." [This is one I have no problem with, haha.]
Friday, July 15, 2011
2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day 29--Letter to a Mythical Creature
Dear Kendra,
[Readers, before you go scouring the interwebz on a quest to find this Kendra of which I speak, relax. She doesn't exist on the internet. She exists only in the minds of me, S, and our other friend whom neither of us really speaks to anymore, M*****. She was a character in a book S and I spent most of 8th grade coming up with the storyline for.]
You were just a baby. The daughter of a mermaid and a sorcerer, you had powers the likes of which your world had never seen. A blank slate, you weren't inherently good or evil; you would end the battle once and for all, but whose side you were on depended on how you were raised. And so, under the cover of night, evil stole you from good's protected castle and whisked you away to a fortress dug deep inside a mountain in a long-forgotten range. A team of students was assembled to rescue you. They never made it.
I loved you so much. You and everything you stood for. Looking back now at how obsessed we were with you, your protectors/defenders, and the forces of evil who held you captive, I have to laugh. But it was all so real then. Your entire world was the greatest figment my imagination will ever know. Your parents' parents, we were the masterminds behind both the plot to steal you and the quest to get you back. We made every minor success and major pitfall along the way. The unexpected detours that threatened to be your would-be saviors' undoing were our doing. We spent hours on the phone and in the library with this every day, planning the most minute of details. Children in our world, we were the ultimate masters in yours. If the guy who wrote Eragon could do it when he was a young teenager, why couldn't we? [Oh how I miss the days when 'Why not?' was reason enough to do something. Though I suppose there's no reason it can't still be.]
Your story never ended though. Sometime around the beginning of high school I simply lost interest. I looked at the unfinished 68 page outline [yes we were that serious] and couldn't believe how naive we were. I had this cold hard world moment where I didn't think anyone else would ever take us or our story seriously and I gave up on you. And I hated myself for it, so I tried to make up some ridiculous story about how writing the outline was boring me and I wanted to spend some time writing actual chapters, but no matter how hard I tried to dedicate myself, I couldn't give you the attention and love and respect you deserved. I just wasn't into it anymore. Maybe it stemmed from not being as close to S once I wasn't seeing him every day, maybe my life just got in the way, maybe I just grew up...I told him I didn't like what I was writing and that I needed to pick up some better writing skills before I could keep going. That I was going to develop them in the Creative Writing class I was going to take sophomore year and then I would start back up again. I took the class...but I never started up again.
I lost all interest in fantasy [at least, the magic and dragons and quests kind of fantasy] at the same time that I gave up on you. I couldn't bring myself to have anything to do with the genre. I don't know which loss of feeling came first. It was so bad that I could barely even finish the last Harry Potter book--I had to know what happened, but I wanted nothing to do with wands and wizardry anymore. I couldn't. I don't know why, but I just couldn't. I couldn't take it seriously anymore.
I'm sorry. I wish I had done better by you. And now you're gone, extant only in our memories, because my mom threw away the computer everything that related to you was stored on without asking me if there was anything I needed on it. I just came back from Princeton one break and it was gone. You were gone. So I'm sorry I couldn't do right by you. And S, I'm sorry I couldn't tell you the truth. I couldn't explain it then, and I still can't. Something in me disappeared and took you with it, Kendra. That's all I can say.
Maya
[Readers, before you go scouring the interwebz on a quest to find this Kendra of which I speak, relax. She doesn't exist on the internet. She exists only in the minds of me, S, and our other friend whom neither of us really speaks to anymore, M*****. She was a character in a book S and I spent most of 8th grade coming up with the storyline for.]
You were just a baby. The daughter of a mermaid and a sorcerer, you had powers the likes of which your world had never seen. A blank slate, you weren't inherently good or evil; you would end the battle once and for all, but whose side you were on depended on how you were raised. And so, under the cover of night, evil stole you from good's protected castle and whisked you away to a fortress dug deep inside a mountain in a long-forgotten range. A team of students was assembled to rescue you. They never made it.
I loved you so much. You and everything you stood for. Looking back now at how obsessed we were with you, your protectors/defenders, and the forces of evil who held you captive, I have to laugh. But it was all so real then. Your entire world was the greatest figment my imagination will ever know. Your parents' parents, we were the masterminds behind both the plot to steal you and the quest to get you back. We made every minor success and major pitfall along the way. The unexpected detours that threatened to be your would-be saviors' undoing were our doing. We spent hours on the phone and in the library with this every day, planning the most minute of details. Children in our world, we were the ultimate masters in yours. If the guy who wrote Eragon could do it when he was a young teenager, why couldn't we? [Oh how I miss the days when 'Why not?' was reason enough to do something. Though I suppose there's no reason it can't still be.]
Your story never ended though. Sometime around the beginning of high school I simply lost interest. I looked at the unfinished 68 page outline [yes we were that serious] and couldn't believe how naive we were. I had this cold hard world moment where I didn't think anyone else would ever take us or our story seriously and I gave up on you. And I hated myself for it, so I tried to make up some ridiculous story about how writing the outline was boring me and I wanted to spend some time writing actual chapters, but no matter how hard I tried to dedicate myself, I couldn't give you the attention and love and respect you deserved. I just wasn't into it anymore. Maybe it stemmed from not being as close to S once I wasn't seeing him every day, maybe my life just got in the way, maybe I just grew up...I told him I didn't like what I was writing and that I needed to pick up some better writing skills before I could keep going. That I was going to develop them in the Creative Writing class I was going to take sophomore year and then I would start back up again. I took the class...but I never started up again.
I lost all interest in fantasy [at least, the magic and dragons and quests kind of fantasy] at the same time that I gave up on you. I couldn't bring myself to have anything to do with the genre. I don't know which loss of feeling came first. It was so bad that I could barely even finish the last Harry Potter book--I had to know what happened, but I wanted nothing to do with wands and wizardry anymore. I couldn't. I don't know why, but I just couldn't. I couldn't take it seriously anymore.
I'm sorry. I wish I had done better by you. And now you're gone, extant only in our memories, because my mom threw away the computer everything that related to you was stored on without asking me if there was anything I needed on it. I just came back from Princeton one break and it was gone. You were gone. So I'm sorry I couldn't do right by you. And S, I'm sorry I couldn't tell you the truth. I couldn't explain it then, and I still can't. Something in me disappeared and took you with it, Kendra. That's all I can say.
Maya
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Things that make me feel like I am not actually a member of my generation:
The last Harry Potter movie premieres tomorrow at midnight, evidently. Facebook is all atwitter (can one still use that word without referring to Twitter itself, which I'm sure is also abuzz--gah, Google Buzz!) with statuses counting the very hours til the premiere, and I'm flashing back to photos that were uploaded of some close friends of mine fully decked out in costume for the last premiere. Though I still recall being absolutely undone by anguish when one of the books arrived at my house (because I pre-ordered it on Amazon) while I was on vacation, incidentally visiting the same awesome friend who is coming to visit me and T this weekend, I can't say I was more of a fan of this series than any other. In fact, I waited a while to read the last book, and read it leisurely instead of devouring it because by the time I was in high school, there were more important things than wizards and wands and the never-ending battle of good versus evil--I had just already devoted so much time and emotional energy to these characters that I had to find out what happened.
What I'm trying to say is, despite having read all 7 of the books growing up, I couldn't possibly give less of a shit about this movie, and will never watch it of my own volition. In fact, I have only ever seen 1.75 Harry Potter movies: as a child, I walked out of the theater when they did not include Hermione's potions scene as one of the tests to fight Voldemort near the end of the first movie, and I saw the third one on DVD because my aunt put it on after Thanksgiving dinner when the family went to Georgia for Thanksgiving my freshman year of high school and there was nothing else to do. It wasn't inherently bad in any way, if anything else was similarly omitted, I had either since forgotten the plot to the point that I didn't notice, or simply no longer particularly cared. The chapter of my life when Iappreciated lived for magic and castles and mythical creatures and a way out of my under-the-staircase life has long since closed. The circumstances of my life that made books like Harry Potter and every other tween-aged fantasy series appeal to me are not circumstances I like to revisit. What exactly is this movie supposed to do for me? What is it doing for bazillions of people like me?
What I'm trying to say is, despite having read all 7 of the books growing up, I couldn't possibly give less of a shit about this movie, and will never watch it of my own volition. In fact, I have only ever seen 1.75 Harry Potter movies: as a child, I walked out of the theater when they did not include Hermione's potions scene as one of the tests to fight Voldemort near the end of the first movie, and I saw the third one on DVD because my aunt put it on after Thanksgiving dinner when the family went to Georgia for Thanksgiving my freshman year of high school and there was nothing else to do. It wasn't inherently bad in any way, if anything else was similarly omitted, I had either since forgotten the plot to the point that I didn't notice, or simply no longer particularly cared. The chapter of my life when I
Friday, June 24, 2011
"I don't read books. I devour them."
An interesting character on the train today (actual real-life character, not one from the book I was reading) reminded me today that we, readers, bookworms, bibliophiles, are a rare and perhaps dying breed. Maybe we're just being replaced by these newfangled Kindle/Nook e-book readers. [Sometimes I wonder if an alien who was coming to observe our planet would think humans derived their energy from portable electronic machines, the way we're all so dependent on them--myself included. (Think about it, our headphones are chargers. Music on, world off, *regains strength*. Anyway...)]
So I'm sitting on the train, I put lipstick on and then pull my book back out of my bag. [Currently reading How to Read the Air by Dinaw Mengestu. I read his first book, The Beautiful Things that Heaven Bears last summer and loved it, so when I saw this at the library, it had to be mine for two weeks.] Out of the corner of my eye I notice this guy (middle-aged, overweight, semi-broke-down looking black man) drinking what appears to be a 1.5ish L bottle of Arbor Mist straight from the bottle alone on the train at 4pm, half roll my eyes, then open my book and continue reading along. A few minutes later, I have the distinct suspicion that I'm being watched, so I cautiously raise my eyes at the next page turn, and sure enough, Mr. Cheap-Fruity-Wine-o [I can't hate too hard, though, I love Arbor Mist, haha. Fruitiness+alcohol=my favorite] is looking at me. *does not acknowledge him in any way, returns to book* Minutes go by, and the next time I happen to glance up to see where we are in my journey to Princeton, I notice that Mr. Cheap-Fruity-Wine-o is speaking, and looking in my direction...oh, is he trying to talk to me? *cautiously takes out one earbud*
This is a paraphrase of his spheel: "I was just looking at your book there. I was just saying how nice it is that you're reading. Don't think I'm some pervert, it's just, that's not something you see everyday on the train, a young girl reading. And I know you're actually reading too, cuz you're turning the pages, that's how I know you're reading. Otherwise you'd just be sitting there on some stupid shit. *realizes I might be offended* Oh I just--that's just how I talk. These just my words, man. Yeah, but you readin. That's, that's what's up." Me, interjecting in my faking-being-sincere-voice: "Thank you!" *tries to put headphones back in* He beats me: "I could tell you some real good books to read. Books that'll flip your mind. Cuz I read them a long time ago and they flipped my mind..." His phone rings. It's his mother. I escape back into my book.
First off, what is it about me that makes strange men think they can just talk to me? Is there an invisible sign above my head saying Open to Conversation? Someone teach me to turn it off.
Secondly...he's right though. I take the train to and from Princeton everyday, and I see lots of people on their cell phones. I see lots of people listening to music. I see people on their laptops. I see people sleeping. I see people chatting and drinking coffee. But I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone else reading. I even have friends at Princeton who simply do not, under any circumstances, read things that aren't for class. And I mean, okay, guys, we are the raised-by-TV generation, but come on now. I love movies and music just as much as the next girl, but I've never reacted to any tangible object the way I react to a good book. I love the chance to be inside someone's or someones' head, to have their thoughts presented to me as if they were my own. I love wrapping myself up in their relationships, applauding their successes and dreading their downfalls. I love both being able to predict what happens next (because real life rarely works that way) and being surprised by a plot twist (because real life works that way). I have learned not to read series, because when they come to a close I feel almost as though I have lost a group of friends. I may never travel to India, or Pakistan, or [insert name of some random small Midwestern town here], but I can know the lifestyle and culture and feel of these places and their inhabitants from the comfort of my...wherever because a book is entirely transportable and will never run out of batteries or overheat. I love the ability to get lost in someone else's life, even if I'm in love with my own--no other medium of entertainment can give me that.
Long story short: read. Evidently it sets us apart from the train-riding masses. Maybe it says you, sir/madam, are an intellectual. Maybe it says you're a thinker or a dreamer. Maybe it just serves as an icebreaker for sketchy middle-aged men. Regardless, read. It will serve you greater purpose than solely being interpretable, I promise.
So I'm sitting on the train, I put lipstick on and then pull my book back out of my bag. [Currently reading How to Read the Air by Dinaw Mengestu. I read his first book, The Beautiful Things that Heaven Bears last summer and loved it, so when I saw this at the library, it had to be mine for two weeks.] Out of the corner of my eye I notice this guy (middle-aged, overweight, semi-broke-down looking black man) drinking what appears to be a 1.5ish L bottle of Arbor Mist straight from the bottle alone on the train at 4pm, half roll my eyes, then open my book and continue reading along. A few minutes later, I have the distinct suspicion that I'm being watched, so I cautiously raise my eyes at the next page turn, and sure enough, Mr. Cheap-Fruity-Wine-o [I can't hate too hard, though, I love Arbor Mist, haha. Fruitiness+alcohol=my favorite] is looking at me. *does not acknowledge him in any way, returns to book* Minutes go by, and the next time I happen to glance up to see where we are in my journey to Princeton, I notice that Mr. Cheap-Fruity-Wine-o is speaking, and looking in my direction...oh, is he trying to talk to me? *cautiously takes out one earbud*
This is a paraphrase of his spheel: "I was just looking at your book there. I was just saying how nice it is that you're reading. Don't think I'm some pervert, it's just, that's not something you see everyday on the train, a young girl reading. And I know you're actually reading too, cuz you're turning the pages, that's how I know you're reading. Otherwise you'd just be sitting there on some stupid shit. *realizes I might be offended* Oh I just--that's just how I talk. These just my words, man. Yeah, but you readin. That's, that's what's up." Me, interjecting in my faking-being-sincere-voice: "Thank you!" *tries to put headphones back in* He beats me: "I could tell you some real good books to read. Books that'll flip your mind. Cuz I read them a long time ago and they flipped my mind..." His phone rings. It's his mother. I escape back into my book.
First off, what is it about me that makes strange men think they can just talk to me? Is there an invisible sign above my head saying Open to Conversation? Someone teach me to turn it off.
Secondly...he's right though. I take the train to and from Princeton everyday, and I see lots of people on their cell phones. I see lots of people listening to music. I see people on their laptops. I see people sleeping. I see people chatting and drinking coffee. But I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone else reading. I even have friends at Princeton who simply do not, under any circumstances, read things that aren't for class. And I mean, okay, guys, we are the raised-by-TV generation, but come on now. I love movies and music just as much as the next girl, but I've never reacted to any tangible object the way I react to a good book. I love the chance to be inside someone's or someones' head, to have their thoughts presented to me as if they were my own. I love wrapping myself up in their relationships, applauding their successes and dreading their downfalls. I love both being able to predict what happens next (because real life rarely works that way) and being surprised by a plot twist (because real life works that way). I have learned not to read series, because when they come to a close I feel almost as though I have lost a group of friends. I may never travel to India, or Pakistan, or [insert name of some random small Midwestern town here], but I can know the lifestyle and culture and feel of these places and their inhabitants from the comfort of my...wherever because a book is entirely transportable and will never run out of batteries or overheat. I love the ability to get lost in someone else's life, even if I'm in love with my own--no other medium of entertainment can give me that.
Long story short: read. Evidently it sets us apart from the train-riding masses. Maybe it says you, sir/madam, are an intellectual. Maybe it says you're a thinker or a dreamer. Maybe it just serves as an icebreaker for sketchy middle-aged men. Regardless, read. It will serve you greater purpose than solely being interpretable, I promise.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Today I finished reading a wonderful book called My Name is Memory
Ann Brashares is on the road to becoming one of those authors I read everything by (like Jodi Picoult) because of her ability to be taking me along through a beautiful story that I can get lost in, developing characters whose pain and joys I feel as if they were my own (or, at the very least, those of someone I'm close to), and then all of a sudden hit me out of nowhere with a line or a phrase that brings me up out of this delicious book-world and back into the real world and makes me question something major in my life and the world at large.
All her descriptions of the eternal undying lasting love and devotion between the two main characters nestled warmly into the depths of my heart like someones snuggling under a blanket, but they're not what I want to talk about. That happens a lot these days.
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| Example A |
The little tiny afterthought-like bit that blew me away was as follows:
"It took a half-dozen of those lives for me to recognize the difference between a means and an end." --Ann Brashares, "My Name is Memory" pp. 154I suppose I first wondered some semblance of this towards the end of high school, when Student Council president came around to ask the Top Ten graduating seniors to fill out this sheet with some questions on it for little blurbs about us that would be put in our yearbooks. One of the questions was "What is your favorite memory from your time at Oakcrest?" or something to that effect. The 8 other members of the Top Ten who were sitting in AP Calc with me started laughing and remembering awesome times they'd had in this club or at that party or whatever, and I was struggling majorly to come up with anything worthy of eternal glorification in the pages of my yearbook. It dawned on me then that these people, my friends, had legitimately enjoyed high school to some extent. Particularly after my personal life exploded at the beginning of junior year, I had been treating it and my experiences in it like a means to an end. It was one more thing I was ready to get the hell away from, til it was over and I realized I had never really experienced it at all.
And so I made a vow to myself that I was going to start living my life differently. I was going to stop taking my life and my day-to-day experiences for granted, I was going to treat each day like an adventure, I was going to do x-thing and y-thing and become an awesome person. And to varying extents at various times, I have done those things, I think. But although I pause to look at my life with wonder more often, and I meditate, and I occasionally walk around Princeton just to look at its beauty and marvel at the fact that I'm here, and I tell my friends just how much they mean to me, and I have begun to take chances...just like college was the end-goal of high school, grad school has been sneaking up as the end-goal of college. Professorship as the end-goal of grad school. And yes, these things are my goals, they are what I want to do with my life, and I'm okay with that. I like them. I actively chose those goals over the other options and am happy with my choice (for now, at least). This is what I want.
...But what is the end-goal of professorship? Can that be the end-all be-all of the end-goals? Should it be a means? What end would it serve? #BigImportantLifeQuestions
You know that moment where you can sense something bad is about to happen to a character in a book...
...and you don't realize how emotionally invested you've gotten in him/her until your heart is pounding and you want to scream out a warning? When this collection of words has somehow become a friend that is near and dear to your heart and needs protecting?
I live for that moment.
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