Lately I feel like all I do is read. I’m taking 5 classes this semester - 1 science, 1 literature, and 3 (3? What was I thinking?) history classes. Additionally, 3 of these 5 are honors classes (re: stupid life choices). This means a heavy, heavy reading load.
In one night, I bounce from 150 pages about genocide (right now it’s Stalin, then on to the Nazis) to 3 different novels (about 150 pages combined), followed up with a delightful book of essays on the detrimental effects of media reductionism on Western/Middle Eastern relations (a refreshingly light 30 pages). All of this does not include, of course, the actual writing assignments on the topics that these readings cover.
It’s all just starting to bland together into one blank block of blandness.
And I love reading - really, I do, or I wouldn’t be an English major with a history minor - but this is beginning to make me resent one of my favorite activities. I read to unwind, but now I associate reading with stress. It’s somehow worse than being stressed by other, more traditionally stressful activities (like having to write long papers or take tests).
I’m going to cap off this frazzled rant from Walker Percy’s The Second Coming, which I’m reading for my literature class.
He smiled and nodded: I know why it is better to be shot at on a Sunday afternoon than not be shot at. Because it means maybe there is an enemy after all. If there is no enemy, then I am either mad or living in a madhouse.
Peace is only better than war if peace is not hell too. War being hell makes sense.
I actually like the book (or at least what little I’ve read of it so far), but the appreciation is tainted by the pressure.