Then and Now — What I Read

Now that I have a “real” job in the “real” world, I get sad from time to time that my life in literature is suffering. I’m a very slow reader, but a reader nonetheless.

As an English major, I developed a great appreciation for depressing stories. Happy endings? Why would I want to waste my time with those when we can focus on pain and destruction? The fairy tales I was required to read usually consisted of the fairy/mythical creature somehow seducing and/or poisoning the story’s lead. It didn’t matter what time period or country it was, either. If it was literature throughout the world, there was a whole slew of wrongs to discuss. If we were in Britain, we were going to be talking about how the Industrial Revolution was ruining our lives. Even the wealthiest Americans of the roaring 20s were going to find something to complain about. It was all Paradise Lost, The Awakening, and Edgar Allan Poe. Whatever we read, it was going to be depressing.

I spent a little time during my undergrad trying to figure out why our teachers focused on these types of stories. Then I stopped wondering and just went with it.

Any time low brow literature was brought up in any given class, all English majors (myself included) in the room would roll their eyes and scoff. Going through our heads was, “That poor non-English major. They actually think Twilight is a good book. They don’t know what they’re missing without our intellectual depressing stuff. They think things should turn out okay at the end. Kid stuff.”

1. This has a point.

2. Whilst making said point, I am also here to confirm that English majors are often as pretentious as you think they are.

Eventually, this type of literature even took over my personal reading list. Christmas break? Must be time to read a little Ayn Rand (and once again, I do mean a little. I’ve been reading Atlas Shrugged off and on for about five years). Summer vacation? I can finally re-read Of Mice and Men and The Bell Jar! A nonfiction piece on Nazi Germany sure does sound refreshing! These stories were raw. These stories were real. Even though I’d rarely been in circumstances similar to these characters’, the author had found a way to make it resonate with me. I think that’s one mark of a good author.

Now, post-graduation, I’m getting paid to read depressing stories every day.

Instead of reading stories about spoiled rich kids who are depressingly finding themselves, or fire and brimstone recounts of Bible stories, I read about families with six children and a mother my age living in a roach infested house with all kids forced to sleep on the floor (by the way, I’m pretty young). I read about babies who are placed in Child Protective Services’ care just days after they’re born because their mom tested positive for cocaine, and more kids who have grown up in crack houses not incredibly far from my safe little neighborhood. Moms who shoplift, dads who beat, stepfathers who sexually abuse.

What’s worse? Now I’m forced to face that these aren’t just stories. Most of my reading these days is about as nonfiction as it gets. I’m starting to agree with those non-English majors on one thing, at least. Things should turn out okay at the end.

Single Post Navigation

← Older Entry

Newer Entry →