Update: Reading Nerd Contest
I’m thinking I’m in a bit of trouble.
Last May I had the brilliant idea [need sarcasm font] to enact a draft of “important” books with several other high school teachers. Read about it here.
Well, four months later and I’ve read exactly one and a third of my four choices. And really, Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus barely counts because it’s the shortest of the four I selected and I read it FOUR MONTHS AGO.
I’ve been reading The God of Small Things off and on [emphasize the OFF] since then and I’m finding it easy to find things to do other than read it. That does not speak too well of me as an English teacher, I believe. And now that school’s started, I’m staring down multiple stacks of homework that need grading and lesson plans that need forming and miscellaneous other things needing to take priority, and this doesn’t even include my family and their demands, which take priority over the former.
I should have read the description of Roy’s novel first: it compares “favorably to the works of Faulkner and Dickens.” I never cared for Dickens, dammit! C’mon, I’m an American lit guy! (Yes, I’m conveniently ignoring the Faulkner reference there).
The even worse thing is that this book was gifted to me by one of my favorite students YEARS ago, and I still haven’t read the thing. Don’t get me wrong, what I’ve read shows promise, but Roy has an ornate style that is not my typical fare. Here’s a sample:
Edges, Borders, Boundaries, Brinks and Limits have appeared like a team of trolls on their separate horizons. Short creatures with long shadows, patrolling the Blurry End. Gentle half-moons have gathered under their eyes and they are as old as Ammu was when she died.
The writing is lush with similes, metaphors and other figurative language. At times I feel like I’m wading waist-deep in her prose, her intent at times breaking the surface, other times brushing against my legs and other times passing by me in the current unseen. It’s definitely rich, rich prose, but at times I’m swallowed by it.
The other two works I drafted are sitting by my desk, unopened, as of yet. It doesn’t really help that BRP has continually heaped praise on one of them (Tobias Wolff’s Old School); I’m eyeing that one constantly, tempted to put off Roy’s novel even longer. And now, here at my newspaper late night, I’ve discovered I don’t have my copy of God… in my bag.
I’m going to break into BRP’s room and grab a copy and resume reading.
It’s better than grading.