Literary Ego

My literary ego made me read Proust as my leisurely reading.

As an English major, I have this smug obligation to read famous works of literature just so that I can say that I've read them. Hence, why I forced myself to finish Herman Melville's Moby-Dick even if I think that it's the most boring work of fiction ever written. (Even worse than Steinbeck's East of Eden; although, I think that one has potential, so I should go back to it.) So, when I heard about Proust's epic seven-volume attempt to grasp the passage of time, there was a little blip in my English major brain, and I thought, 'That's it! Time for me to read Proust!' I had heard that it was hard to understand, but oh dear, I really underestimated that French author.

To business books, we are usually "Simplify! Simplify!" Yes, Proust, simplify. No, just kidding. Simplifying In Search of Lost Time would be taking away the major artistic merit of the work. And his writing is absolutely gorgeous, and scarily precise. What a brain to be able to express, in words, a single train of thought that takes less than a second.

Because I admire such literature, I think it's good that I am interning at BK. I am exposed to books that I would probably never think of picking up in the bookstore, and I am learning that not all books are published in the same way.

Okay, I got to get back to the mind-wringing world of Proust. (And no, I will not quit midway through the book. I am going to finish it and feed my ego.)