I’ve Read That

I read a study recently that revealed nearly 50% of men (ostensibly) lie to their friends or potential partners about what they read in order to make a strong impression.  I find this hard to believe.  Sure, it’s plausible that a few guys falsely inflate their literacy history but I have a strong suspicion that most do not.  

Take me for example; I am a voracious reader, my free time is often spent indulging in a classic work of fiction. However, the motivation behind my reading isn’t sparked by the incentive of impressing friends or girls; rather, it’s personal enlightenment that I’m striving for.   It’s like what Jack Kerouack eloquently stated in his classic On the Road: “Hitchhiking is a fun way to reach an epiphany.”  I’ve adopted this saying as my own personal thesis statement, except I replace the word ‘hitchhiking’ with ‘reading’ and I keep ‘epiphany’ as ‘epiphany.’   To make this less cryptic for the non-reader: “Reading is a fun way to reach an epiphany.”  

Ever since I was a child I’ve had an innate thirst for literature.   It wasn’t until my collegiate years though that this passion exploded into fruition.    

During my student days when I would highlight every sentence of every paragraph (including the index and glossary) in everyone of my textbooks it was not because I lacked the simple analytical ability to differentiate between truly relevant passages from the inconsequential.  On the contrary, it was because I had a keen understanding that every single sentence is imperative to the book as a whole.

And, at the end of each semester, when I would later sell my books for well under the market price to the little kiosk located on the Domino’s parking lot, it was not because I was desperate for beer/late night burritos cash.  Sure, I might have spent this extra cash on booze and burritos but that’s not the point.  The point is that I performed a noble deed as I elected to forward my breadth of knowledge onto incoming class of students for a reasonable price.  

And, the following year, when an underclassmen would buy back my used book and discover my markings inside, he or she most definitely did not become upset or baffled.  No, I have a strong suspicion that right after they opened my previously owned editions of Beowulf and Walden and scanned fluorescent page after beautiful fluorescent page with scribbled, handwritten notes like: ‘Grendel=bad monster…possibly represents hell?’ and ‘he really likes gardens… gardens=heaven?’ they secretly whispered to me, “Thank you, stranger.  Thank you for helping me unlock the answers.” 

Although I got rid of a good chunk of my college books, my post-college bookshelf is still filled to capacity.  I realize the impending sentence may come across as esoteric, but I don’t care: my apartment is filled with tomes of Dan Brown and Dean Koontz novels.  So if you witness me at a party make a clever Angels and Demons or Mr. Murder reference, you better believe your ass that I know what I’m talking about.  And if you think bragging about your affinity for a book entitled Mr. Murder will get you laid then you are misinformed.  But that’s fine with me as I’m only reading for one chick: my literary muse.  

Yes, I concede that there exists a population out there that lies about their literary street cred but they only represent the minority.   Call it blind faith but I believe there are lots of people on this earth that are just like me.  There’s just something in my gut that tells me that this world is filled with smart, well read people.  Or, to frame it in the realm of the classic Of Mice and Men, I strongly believe there are far more people like Lenny then there are like George.