I Remember, When I Was A Little

Like Seeing A Photograph Of Yourself As A Child, Encountering Handwriting That You Know Was Once Yours But That Now Seems Only Dimly Familiar Can Inspire A Confrontation With The Mystery Of Time.

You Can Assume That If A Writer's Work Has Survived For Centuries, There Are Reasons Why This Is So, Explanations That Have Nothing To Do With A Conspiracy Of Academics Plotting To Resuscitate A Zombie Army Of Dead White Males.

I Can No More Reread My Own Books Than I Can Watch Old Home Movies Or Look At Snapshots Of Myself As A Child. I Wind Up Sitting On The Floor, Paralyzed By Grief And Nostalgia.

With So Much Reading Ahead Of You, The Temptation Might Be To Speed Up. But In Fact It’s Essential To Slow Down And Read Every Word. Because One Important Thing That Can Be Learned By Reading Slowly Is The Seemingly Obvious But Oddly Underappreciated Fact That Language Is The Medium We Use In Much The Same Way A Composer Uses Notes, The Way A Painter Uses Paint. I Realize It May Seem Obvious, But It’s Surprising How Easily We Lose Sight Of The Fact That Words Are The Raw Material Out Of Which Literature Is Crafted.

What I Love Is How Pissed Off Jane Eyre Is. She's In A Rage For The Whole Novel And The Payoff Is She Gets To Marry This Blind Guy Who's Toasted His Wife In The Attic." -angela Argo "blue Angel