just don't swallow

You know that scene in Ratatouille where Anton Ego breaks in on a press conference?  Linguini is happily -- arrogantly -- fielding questions when Ego's initimidating string bean of a body pushes through the crowd.  Threats are made.  Taunts are exchanged.  And Linguini makes what he believes to be the parting shot:

"You're awfully thin for someone who likes food!"

The crowd gasps.  Anton stops, turns, and spits out, "I don't *like* food.  I love it.  If I don't love it, I. Don't. Swallow."

I've been reading a lot lately.  In fact, I've been procrastinating on a full introduction to solid foods because then Kekoa won't need to nurse as often, which means I won't get to read as often.  Sad.  :(

But the inevitable happens, as it always has in the past.  I pick up a fabulous book.  I remember how wonderful reading is.  I go on a "reading binge," where I frequent the local library and read as if my life depended on it. 

And then, that book happens.

You know, the book that has been highly touted and critically acclaimed.  The book that is on every single "100 books you must read" list.  The one about which you must be able to converse intelligently if you want intellectuals to give you the time of the day.

The book that bores you to tears.

You fight, you struggle, you claw your way to the end.  Or maybe you don't - it doesn't really matter.  Because when you finish, you are defeated.  You are an un-intellectual (or worse, an anti-intellectual).  You obviously do not appreciate great art when you read.  Your soul must not be developed highly enough to understand, to commune with the truth you encountered.

The binge is over.  You can go back to real life now.  And when someone says, "Have you read _____?"  You may or may not be able to say yes.  But whether you finished it or not, you will be forced to hang your head in shame and mumble assent as they gush about how that book formed their soul. 

And of course, to say that their soul was formed by an utterly dry, completely pointless, overly wordy piece of junk that somehow wormed its way into the classics wouldn't be at all nice.

This time around, the book for me is Catch-22.  It's not that Heller isn't clever.  It's that he thinks he is clever, and therefore feels the need to repeat his clever joke again. and again.  You thought it was funny when one bureaucrat signs his name as "Washington Irving" to official documents?  Well then, it must be twice as funny if TWO officials sign their names as Washington Irving. And maybe throw in a John Milton for good measure.

It's not that the book shouldn't have been written....it's just that the 450 pages could have been written in 100, and probably shouldn't have exceeded 200.

So anyway.  I didn't finish it. 

But!  I am happy to report that I am still reading.  Because at last, I have come to the place where I  don't have to cram that dry lump of a book down my throat. 

Because if I don't love it, then I don't have to swallow it.