Liter-what? Literature? Never Heard of It.

The other day at work I was asked to clean my desk, not because I was getting fired, but because my desk becomes horrendously unorganized rather quickly, and to a disturbing extent. Things just pile up and free space becomes completely unattainable. Instead, I write, eat, and place beverages on top of stacks of paper and folders.

I know, I’m an office genius.

When I was cleaning my desk, I obviously decided to place a lot of the random papers in one of the two overhead compartments I have in my cube. I assume they’re supposed to serve the purpose of holding tired business travelers’ coats and briefcases. Instead though, I use it to store the junk I don’t feel like throwing out yet.

While piling garbage in these compartments to give my workspace the aura of professionalism, I noticed two old books napping up there: one was a tutorial book attempting to teach CSS, or Cascading Style Sheets. The second was Invitation to a Beheading by Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov (yes, his name was Vladimir Vladimirovich). In Nabokov’s book lay an old bookmark which never made it one quarter of the way through the race: it idled, like so many bookmarks I own or created, in the early, unaccomplished stages of the book.

The sight of this book I own but don’t at all enjoy and never fully read sent my mind on a Sunday Drive down Memory Lane (which apparently intersects nicely with Cliché-Phrases Boulevard).

Allow me to explain:

So I’ve touched on this before, but clearly it is a topic that requires much attention: I’m not a big reader. Why is this an issue? Well, because I DO have a BA in English. Most of the time people rightfully assume that I’ve read X or that I’ve probably heard of author Y, and that I really can’t wait to read Pointless-Novel-With-Some-Kind-Of-Catch Z.

Well, all of that is pretty much not the case. I got my degree in English because I liked writing. Poetry mostly (I know, mega-cool guy over here). I liked reading poetry too, but only some poetry. I’m not about to sit by a fire and thumb through Canterbury Tales (thanks for THAT one, Chaucer).

Now, as I explained in my previous essay, (which you all read, right? RIGHT?!?!?) the more I wrote essays, the more I realized a potential in prose, a potential for me to enjoy writing in this medium, I mean. What I liked about poetry was that I was a bit freer to do what I wanted to; free to learn what I liked and what I didn’t like by trying. Eventually, I was forced to learn the rules of prose thanks to writing tons of essays (WOOOOOOOOO!), and the more I wrote, the more I imagined the way I’d like to write essays. Finally I arrived here: at a place where I currently enjoy my writing style, but years from now I’ll probably look back at it with a more discriminating eye.

So, I needed to be persuaded that I liked prose, because for the most part I didn’t enjoy prose. Most of the novels I either read or was forced to read I wasn’t a fan of. Either it was some antiquated notion or dialect, or it was just wholly uninteresting and filled with too much description.

Oh, description. Description, to me, is like mustard. It’s brilliant and beautiful in the appropriate dose, but if you smother something in it, you don’t really want to eat it anymore. And that’s just what it did to me. I didn’t want to eat novels with too much description. Wait…ummm, I mean read…yes…I don’t eat books. Yes…

But overall the more I went through English classes the more I didn’t like novels. They were just tombs of symbolism and dense black holes that compressed my interest into a singularity which I expressed as a long sigh or daydream. Follow that? Good. If not: I don’t like most novels. Just reiterating.

Now, there is some prose I enjoy. Call me naïve or a hipster or whatever, but I do enjoy the works of J. D. Salinger. I enjoy the writings of Edwidge Danticat. I think David Sedaris is a great writer too. Plus, all the greatest TV shows and movies were mostly great because, in my opinion, the writing was excellent. But I’m just not really a reader. I can’t sit around reading a book for the most part. It just takes too long and is too time consuming. I want the author to just get to the damn point already.

And yes, yes: I am aware that I have been regurgitating a similar sentiment at quite some length for quite some time now, so I am aware of the irony of explaining that prose lacks expedience in a long-winded rant.

But this is my website and I can does what I wants!

However, this does make one feel a bit uneducated. The only thing that saves me is that I have a BA in English. Otherwise, conversations with me regarding literature would make me sound like a thick-skulled ignoramus:

SOMEONE

Hey, did you ever read Slaughterhouse-Five?

ME

That’s by Vonnegut, right?

SOMEONE

Yeah. I love that novel

ME

Never read it. I never read anything by Vonnegut. I tried to read Breakfast of Champions once, but…

SOMEONE

Really? You never read him? I think you’d LOVE him.

ME

No offense, but probably not. I don’t really like reading unless it’s a new collection poems by Ted Kooser or me re-reading some old faves by Richard Brautigan.

SOMEONE

Wait…you don’t read at all?

ME

Meh. I don’t really like reading. It takes too long and is too annoying.

Without knowing me, I don’t exactly sound like someone who has a degree in English, or anything for that matter. I come across ignorant, and I can’t really defend myself. Like I mentioned in my previous essay, years of English education just made literature leave a bad taste in my mouth. When it gets mentioned, I tend to get a bit testy and defensive towards illiteracy.

Of course, I don’t always spew these kinds of rants. I wrote a poem once about how pretty girls often get me reading things I never thought I’d read. I mean, I’m honest about my “meh” attitude towards literature, but I don’t act as belligerent as I appeared in the previous script.

And now, dear reader, we get to the point that ties this all together with the intro of this essay. Your questions of “how the hell does this relate to that stupid book by Nabo-whatever he mentioned earlier” will now be answered!

I was interested in this one girl in college. Well, there were a couple, but for this story, let’s focus on the one. Also, for the purposes of this story, let’s re-name this girl…ummm, Mary. Yeah, that’ll do.

Mary was a cool girl, and I was a shy guy too nervous to actually let Mary I know I was interested in her. She was an English major too, which meant she was in some of my classes. We’d talk about assignments and literature and, well, pretty much anything except what she was doing later and if she’d like to hang out sometime.

When we’d get on the topic of literature, I’d express my love for Ted Kooser or W. S. Merwin (at this point, I had yet to learn of Richard Brautigan’s brilliance). She suggested that I read Invitation to a Beheading by Nabokov. “Oh yeah?” I said…or asked, depending how you look at it. “Yeah,” she replied, “I think you’d like him.”

Now, I’d never read anything by Nabokov. So, naturally, like an ass, I just bought the book since Mary was cute and nice.

Ahh, what a book. I made it through about 15 pages before I lost my interest in it. Then, I made it through another 10 pages before I lost my interest in Mary. Then, and now, the book sat, and sits, in that aforementioned overhead compartment in my cubicle at my job. Sitting idly, sucking horribly and being awful.

Now, many of you out there may like Nabokov’s work, which is fine. I don’t mind. People should enjoy tons of different things, which makes the world awesome. But what people shouldn’t do is what I did: don’t go buying a book just because a pretty girl you’re in some classes with recommended it to you, and you, without competent enough social skills to have conversation on your own accord, feel you may enjoy it or at least be able to talk about it.

I should have went to a library or looked Nabokov up online. That would have been fine. But no, instead I decided to go out and buy it. Honestly, I made this impulse purchase also assuming it would once again stimulate my desire to read.

Nope. It didn’t do that.

So, like coupons that were nearing, but had not yet passed, an expiration date, old scribbles I liked but didn’t know what to do with, and post-its from friends I’ve worked with, Nabokov’s well-acclaimed book Invitation to a Beheading rests in a coffin of its own, reminding me of one of the most important lessons I’ve ever learned: just fucking talk to girls instead of buying books they suggest, you idiot.

Keep the love alive, everyone

- Mike