So, I've never said this to anyone, much less my blog audience, but--let me take a deep breath. OK. I...can't read.
Hm. Maybe that's a lie. What I should say is, I haven't been able to finish a book in two years, give or take a few months. The last one I read was probably House of Leaves by Poe's brother, Mark Danielewski, or my favorite book, White Noise by Don Delillo. You know, I always say that's my favorite book, but now that I reflect upon things, it doesn't seem that strong of a recommendation.
I'm a fan of effective and creative syntax, and a real lover of language. The fact is, I just simply don't have the attention span for novels. I take in enormous amounts of information, in the form of blogs and magazines; I subscribe to New York and New Yorker (and, if it existed, I'm sure I'd get New Yorkest). The half-dozen novels I bought this year, though? I haven't finished any of them.
This isn't necessarily a ground-breaking admission, but I tout myself as such an intellectual, and the book is such an integral part to that image that I always act like I read so many. I've listed books in my Myspace favorites that I haven't finished. In college, I would finish the first few chapters of every book and then complete them with Spark Notes; in turn, I always had my hand up in class to analyze the book as if I toiled endlessly coming to those conclusions.
What's my main point? There's no shame. I think I'm one of many, to be honest. And I don't think we need to play this game of pseudo-intellectualism. I'm a former English major, and I'm absolutely ambivalent towards literature. So what? I like facts, I like non-fiction, I like practical data. I'm going to turn my shame into a big, yawning finger to the condescending world of academes.
...Oh, and I hate poetry.
what about yoru lover in texas?
Your intrigue factor continues to climb. Keep writing !
I think this might be one of only three honest responses that actually answered the question. Kudos.
How does one LOVE Jewel and hate poetry, exactly? Do tell... ambivalence suggests strong feelings toward a subject- that subject which you profess to have no feelings about. You contradict yourself, which is human. However, you put it in print, which is never a good idea. Apparently The New Yorker has taught you nothing.