So, I've been perilously close to not finishing A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court for about a month now. Over the summer I made a resolution to finish every book I've started--even making pictures of each book my background on my phone to remind me. This has been successful in that I have finished every book I've started. Unfortunately, this also led to me reading a quite dreadful book, frankly.
This is not the case of A Connecticut Yankee. I've read Mark Twain before--Huckleberry Finn in my American Lit. class was a must, naturally--but never for fun. Leisure reading is so much easier for me to languish on and enjoy, to be honest. I feel like I'm betraying my English major-ness, but it's true: the book that you have to have finished by a certain date, be prepared to discuss, and analyze--that is the book that is work. When you are forced to study something, even if it is otherwise enjoyable, it quickly becomes tiresome (Sorry, Professor Dengler).
Anyway, I'm actually enjoying this book--not just enjoying, but actually laughing at. This book makes me giggle, chuckle, snort, guffaw. I've missed that; I've missed the book that can get me to cry, to gasp, to snarl in outrage. That is the reading experience, that is the quality book. A talented author doesn't just provoke thought, he or she provokes emotion.
Thanks, Mark Twain. If I choke back a laugh in the library, it's because of you.
Sunday Morning Meds--Righteous Anger
1 day ago