The book---not the blog

I started reading a memoir this weekend titled "Running with Scissors," not out of vanity because I thought that somehow I could gleen some sort of artistic flare by simply reading a published author's works who shares the same title I do---more so because my wife checked it out at the library and I didn't want to read the other two books I have started.

It would appear that I am naturally drawn to stories of pure misery--tragedies in the Roman tradition. Then again--it could be that the majority of the stuff that gets published is tragic--after all what does someone have to write about if everything is roses and puppy dogs? I doubt I could ever write a novel...I don't have the miserable depths of tragedy and despair to draw upon for literary allusion.

It's funny how in my late 20's I read for pure enjoyment, and in my early 20's someone could have literally threatened me with all sorts of torture--upto and including the blaring of Christina Aguilera music in a cold room---and I still wouldn't read what I was REQUIRED to read.
Not that I was anti-intellectual, more so that I was busy hanging out with friends and skipping class and all manner of debauchery.