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The other day I found this little card inside a book. It was a list of classical books and it asked "How many have you read?"
Having nothing better to do, I started checking the list. To my utter embarrassment, there were some books I was suppossed to have read for college, but never got around to doing it.
Oh... "Jane Eyre". I should have read you before reading "Wide Sargasso Sea", but you sounded so tragic (and so long). I couldn't take that much suffering for 400 plus pages.
I notice Joseph Conrad looking at me suspiciously. In my defense, I read like... 30 pages of "Heart of Darkness" and couldn't go on. I know, watching "Apocalypse Now" is no substitute for the book, but the professor went on and on about imperialism and I just lost interest...
I get to the end of the list, Virgina Woolf throws her "To the Lighthouse" in my head. I'm sorry, why can't we... you know... just go to the lighthouse already?
I try to explain to all of them the reasons why I couldn't finish their books, hoping they won't further accuse of even donating their books to charity.
Jealousy reigns. "How come there are so Jane Austen and Shakespere books marked, huh?" Charlotte Brontë can't understand why I can read her sister's gothic novel but not hers. That is trully unfair, I admit it. (I hope that never happens to me).
Jealousy reigns. "How come there are so Jane Austen and Shakespere books marked, huh?" Charlotte Brontë can't understand why I can read her sister's gothic novel but not hers. That is trully unfair, I admit it. (I hope that never happens to me).
Ok, ok, ok. Let's settle this. You are all very deserving of a second chance. I'll give Charlotte a try soon and the others I'll give it a try... someday.