School pretty much ruined me for reading for pleasure. I’m roughly 30 years old and I’ve probably read fewer than 10 novels since college. I don’t think I like fiction. I can feel the language/reading part of my brain atrophying into a shriveled nodule just strong enough to labor through the WSJ and occasional marginally-better-than-total-drivel gems from the blogosphere (how this word gets spelling-errored in WordPress is a total mindfuck). Also, fuck you, Twitter. I just sit back and mindlessly scan the schizophrenic global blather and somehow think I’m reading or learning.
I’m going to try to make reading for pleasure a permanent part of my life. I’m going to try to work my way through Modern Library’s list of the 100 Best Novels. I will almost certainly quit. I will certainly forget the details of each book. So I’ll use this blog to capture my musings on the content and undertaking (until I quit). I’ll do my best not to wax philosophical, sound pretentious (maybe already violated this), be trite or anything else I’d find annoying.
I got a Kindle and an iPad for Christmas, and the only paper I’ll touch on this quest should be the TP while on my reading seat.