When I think of Ed Sheeran, I think of Van Morrison. It's hard not to, the physical resemblences are hard to miss: both are red-headed Irish guys (Morrison was born in Ireland, Sheeran is English-born but of Irish descent), Ed looks like a young Van facially, and both are singer-songwriters. Superficial, yes, but pop music is nothing if not superficial at least on the surface (I feel like that last thought could have been culled from Yogi Berra).
The dude shot to fame with that song about the crack whore (yes, if you pay attention to the lyrics, it's a lovely tune about crack addiction), but I like his follow-up single "Lego House" better, especially the music video that combines the actual music video his record company made (starring Ron Weasley) and a fan-made video out of, well, Lego animation. It's kind of a trip.
It's one of those songs that gives you hope, in a landscape dominated by Train and Nicki Minaj and Taylor Swift (all artists who, while not necessarily terrible, are a little overplayed on the radio, as I'm sure Mr. Sheeran will be before I finish typing this sentence). It's a song that you can actually relate to, that isn't about partying all the time but about the fragile nature of interpersonal relationships. Because you know what? Those can break down at any time.
Facebook is both a blessing and a curse, in that you can share everything about yourself with total strangers but you can share everything about yourself with perfect strangers. I've seen it numerous times and been guilty of it myself, enough to feel like privacy is almost more of a choice than a right in the digital age. We live in a time where you are almost expected to divulge everything you're thinking or going through on social media, and while that can be healing it can also lead to places you don't want to go. You can vent about someone or something that "did" you "wrong," and you'll feel good for about five minutes until you realize that the other person or entity might see that, and you have to deal with the repercussions. That's why I've backed off talking so much about personal things on Facebook or other social media, unless I have the assurance of anonymity that is all too rare in the information age.
Suffice it to say, a friendship is broken, and in the past my efforts to fix it would've led to simply more hurt feelings and the all-too-common occurance of an absence in my life where once there was a presence that I might not have realized could be gone. Just because you're hurt doesn't give you the license to take it out on who hurt you, even if (like I said) it makes you feel better for about five minutes. The world can be a crazy, scary place, and if you're lucky you can have people in your life that will see you at your worst and still be ready to call you a friend. This has really gotten away from the song I was talking about, but that's how these things go sometimes; you start off in one direction then you go down a side street. I think that's what makes music so important to me and others like me, it helps bring you to places you might not otherwise go. As I've heard "Lego House" on the radio or seen the video on TV this past month, I've been more than happy to let it wash over me, clean out the areas of my brain polluted by my own self-doubts and recriminations over actions that hurt someone I care about and for which I am truly sorry.
So I'd like to think that, when I hear this song again (and it's beginning to get regular rotation, so it's a certainty), I'll feel that same sense of regret tinged with happiness for what once was and could have been. I don't know what the future holds, but I look towards it anyway. And Ed Sheeran, whatever else he does with his career (he might have the longetivity of a Van Morrison, or the brief flicker of so many other bright young songwriters before him), has left me with a song that I can listen for and to when life seems overwhelming, and that's a good thing.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
The Decemberists, "Grace Cathedral Hill (Live)"
Some people have church; I have bookstores.
I realize some people will find that blasphemy, but it's true; my place of worship is amongst a row of dusty old paperbacks or brand-new hardbacks that someone read once, or bought for a friend who didn't want it, or just wanted to give back after enjoying said book and hope that someone else would find it amongst the stacks of other volumes and give it a try. There are few such places where I feel like I can spend hours (literally; ask anyone in my family who's ever made the mistake of accompanying me to Books-A-Million or a thrift store in the past, they'll testify to that) just roaming around, looking for something in particular or nothing in general. It's pretty damn relaxing too, if you're in good with the owner of a small bookshop and they let you use the restroom if you have to.
Every Saturday, it seems, I go out early to enjoy a day hitting up various locales in the greater Clemson/Anderson area. After a long week at work or in my personal life, it's my own mini-vacation. Sometimes I have a book in mind that I'm looking for, but more often than not I'm just winging it, seeing what's out there and hoping to stumble across something that will divert me for a few hours, entertain me or educate me (or both). I've been a reader for as long as I can remember, it's one of the things I got from my mom. And it's something that I wonder about sometimes.
To be a reader, a real dedicated reader of books (not just fiction, but non-fiction, essay collections, science books, sports books, and so on), you have to be comfortable with being alone for large chunks of time. Readers are not necessarily social creatures. We tend to hide away from fun, natural light, and conversations. We're happiest, it seems, thrust into a fictional world that only exists on the printed (or electronic) page but which comes alive in our vivid imaginations. Bookstores, however, almost force us out of our shells, because we have to be polite when we ask someone who's standing between us and that Graham Greene novel we want to move out of our way. Or we could just wait till they move on to the James Patterson section, whatevs. To each their own.
The Decemberists seem like a "literary band," which is a nice way of saying "educated douchebags with guitars," because most bands are just douchebags with guitars (tell me you don't die a little inside when you read about how Keith Moon was an abusive prick away from the drum set or that Jim Morrison really believed his poetry was good. Tell me that doesn't make you re-think celebrity hero-worship). But I like what I've heard of them, and "Grace Cathedral Hill," the live version off their live album, made me think of this topic when I was driving to work today. There's a difference between being lonely and loneliness, and to me bookstores (be them big chain places like BAM, where I'm more likely to cruise around the pop-culture or sports sections, or the little neck-of-the-woods places like McClure's or McDowell's) are ways of being alone together, with fellow converts to the religion of the printed word.
McClure's is in Clemson, off the main drag and full of goodies in all the subjects I love. Back when I needed money, I'd take in books there for sale or donations, and sometimes I still see books that I had to part with (or was all too happy to be rid of, in some cases) still on the shelf, waiting for a second (or third, or fourth) home. It's usually a good way to kill time if I have a particularly brief lunch and still have time before going back to work. McDowell's is more for the weekends, because it's in Anderson and way past the mall (which has BAM now). It's this little house just off the highway, a co-worker told me about it and when I found it I was in reader-heaven. It's literally stuffed with books, you can't turn around without finding more than you thought could be in a particular section. If the term "book-gasm" doesn't exist, it should to describe both McClure's and McDowell's. And no, I wasn't paid for those endorsements.
Of course, there are other book-buying areas out there; I sometimes stop at a spot just before you get into Anderson, it's more geared towards mystery-book readers and so, but their tiny non-fiction section has yielded some wonderful finds (and I was a little miffed when I saw a copy of Inherent Vice, which I'd bought new elsewhere, there on the used fiction shelf last weekend). If I have to go to Easley for any reason, I usually stop in a place that's next to the railroad tracks. Odd thing is, every book I've bought there usually ends up unread and donated elsewhere (the trend began when the owner was kind enough to let me use the facilities and, common courtesy being what it is, I bought a copy of The Guns of August even though I'd read it, just to be nice. Ever since, when I get home with a book that I bought there, I automatically lose interest. I don't know why). There are chain bookstores, of course: BAM, which used to be in a shady strip mall in Anderson before it moved into the Mall and got nicer (but I miss the old, seedy location); and Booksmith, in Seneca, which has been more of a lurking destination than a buying one (though I occasionally do feel like committing to a purchase).
You might think I'm wasting gas and money, and you could be right. None of the books I've bought and read have led me to a higher-paying job, a relationship with a beautiful woman who finds my Monty Python-quoting hilarious, or much else that I might want. But until any or all of those things do occur, I can always get away from my troubles for a few hours every Saturday, whether I buy anything or not. Religious experience? Perhaps.
I realize some people will find that blasphemy, but it's true; my place of worship is amongst a row of dusty old paperbacks or brand-new hardbacks that someone read once, or bought for a friend who didn't want it, or just wanted to give back after enjoying said book and hope that someone else would find it amongst the stacks of other volumes and give it a try. There are few such places where I feel like I can spend hours (literally; ask anyone in my family who's ever made the mistake of accompanying me to Books-A-Million or a thrift store in the past, they'll testify to that) just roaming around, looking for something in particular or nothing in general. It's pretty damn relaxing too, if you're in good with the owner of a small bookshop and they let you use the restroom if you have to.
Every Saturday, it seems, I go out early to enjoy a day hitting up various locales in the greater Clemson/Anderson area. After a long week at work or in my personal life, it's my own mini-vacation. Sometimes I have a book in mind that I'm looking for, but more often than not I'm just winging it, seeing what's out there and hoping to stumble across something that will divert me for a few hours, entertain me or educate me (or both). I've been a reader for as long as I can remember, it's one of the things I got from my mom. And it's something that I wonder about sometimes.
To be a reader, a real dedicated reader of books (not just fiction, but non-fiction, essay collections, science books, sports books, and so on), you have to be comfortable with being alone for large chunks of time. Readers are not necessarily social creatures. We tend to hide away from fun, natural light, and conversations. We're happiest, it seems, thrust into a fictional world that only exists on the printed (or electronic) page but which comes alive in our vivid imaginations. Bookstores, however, almost force us out of our shells, because we have to be polite when we ask someone who's standing between us and that Graham Greene novel we want to move out of our way. Or we could just wait till they move on to the James Patterson section, whatevs. To each their own.
The Decemberists seem like a "literary band," which is a nice way of saying "educated douchebags with guitars," because most bands are just douchebags with guitars (tell me you don't die a little inside when you read about how Keith Moon was an abusive prick away from the drum set or that Jim Morrison really believed his poetry was good. Tell me that doesn't make you re-think celebrity hero-worship). But I like what I've heard of them, and "Grace Cathedral Hill," the live version off their live album, made me think of this topic when I was driving to work today. There's a difference between being lonely and loneliness, and to me bookstores (be them big chain places like BAM, where I'm more likely to cruise around the pop-culture or sports sections, or the little neck-of-the-woods places like McClure's or McDowell's) are ways of being alone together, with fellow converts to the religion of the printed word.
McClure's is in Clemson, off the main drag and full of goodies in all the subjects I love. Back when I needed money, I'd take in books there for sale or donations, and sometimes I still see books that I had to part with (or was all too happy to be rid of, in some cases) still on the shelf, waiting for a second (or third, or fourth) home. It's usually a good way to kill time if I have a particularly brief lunch and still have time before going back to work. McDowell's is more for the weekends, because it's in Anderson and way past the mall (which has BAM now). It's this little house just off the highway, a co-worker told me about it and when I found it I was in reader-heaven. It's literally stuffed with books, you can't turn around without finding more than you thought could be in a particular section. If the term "book-gasm" doesn't exist, it should to describe both McClure's and McDowell's. And no, I wasn't paid for those endorsements.
Of course, there are other book-buying areas out there; I sometimes stop at a spot just before you get into Anderson, it's more geared towards mystery-book readers and so, but their tiny non-fiction section has yielded some wonderful finds (and I was a little miffed when I saw a copy of Inherent Vice, which I'd bought new elsewhere, there on the used fiction shelf last weekend). If I have to go to Easley for any reason, I usually stop in a place that's next to the railroad tracks. Odd thing is, every book I've bought there usually ends up unread and donated elsewhere (the trend began when the owner was kind enough to let me use the facilities and, common courtesy being what it is, I bought a copy of The Guns of August even though I'd read it, just to be nice. Ever since, when I get home with a book that I bought there, I automatically lose interest. I don't know why). There are chain bookstores, of course: BAM, which used to be in a shady strip mall in Anderson before it moved into the Mall and got nicer (but I miss the old, seedy location); and Booksmith, in Seneca, which has been more of a lurking destination than a buying one (though I occasionally do feel like committing to a purchase).
You might think I'm wasting gas and money, and you could be right. None of the books I've bought and read have led me to a higher-paying job, a relationship with a beautiful woman who finds my Monty Python-quoting hilarious, or much else that I might want. But until any or all of those things do occur, I can always get away from my troubles for a few hours every Saturday, whether I buy anything or not. Religious experience? Perhaps.
Friday, June 14, 2013
Fun., "Carry On"
There are songs that you like because they're sad and you (as a reasonably well-adjusted and happy individual) can laugh them off because, well, it's not about you. Then there are songs that you hate because they're so damn cheery and you're miserable enough without being reminded that somewhere, in some place, someone is having way more fun than you. Then there are songs that, when you're in a lousy mood but not in a cutting-my-wrists-to-Radiohead way, can promise that, whatever the trials and tribulations you go through, tomorrow is just around the corner. And sometimes, they come from the most unlikely sources.
Fun. were not much "fun" to my ears after being subjected to the far-too-many-times-on-the-damn-radio frequent airplay of "We Are Young" (a song that until recently I still didn't like, though time has passed and I appreciate the song a bit now that it's not every damn where). I wasn't too sure about "Some Nights", though I thought it was weird using Civil War imagery (as a "War Between the States" aficionado, I do like a good ole fashioned shoot-out between Blue and Gray). But their most recent single, "Carry On," kinda hits for me right now.
I won't go into it here, because some things are not fodder for "Trevor's gonna blog about it!" Some things just are, and as Jimmy Buffett once said, it's my own damn fault. But anyway, I can say that, in the past, I have had many, many, many crappy times where music has helped me through, and this is one of thoses.
While I won't talk about the specifics of what I won't talk about (trust me on this one), I will generally allude to the growing sense of unease as I pass from my early thirties towards something that I grew up believing was supposed to be "grown-up life." When I was young (no, that wasn't a cue for that song), I thought that age brought maturity, responsiblity taking over for fun times, the assurance that somewhere out there was a life that you could live and look back on and say "that was like a movie." Perhaps it was the Reagan Era's version of "Good Feelings," that as long as you had money and stuff you'd be alright. I know people who still cling to those notions, and while I don't begrudge them much their money or stuff, I do know that often times happiness doesn't come with a price tag (at least not an actual price tag).
But as I've gotten older, my "wiser" quotient seems to fluctuate between Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker as a punk-ass wannabe Jedi. And when I fuck up, my go-to response of humor doesn't quite cut it anymore. At least not with the people who matter.
Bad times, yes, but they will pass, maybe not today or tomorrow, but they will. I think my worst time as a person was after I got fired from my library job. I didn't have a breakdown per se, but anyone who knew me back then would probably say I was "worrisome" at the least. But I got up each morning out of bed, went looking for a job, found two jobs, and have managed somehow not to screw up majorly. A little here and there minor screw-ups, but nothing major.
I would say to anyone reading this, if you're down and weary: this too will pass. I think it's fair to say that bad times exist to remind us to cherish those fleeting "good times" we have, those that get us through when everything seems against us or we're not sure what to do because nothing has seemed to work so far. It's not what happens to you but how you deal with it that defines you. Granted, I'm pretty crappy at dealing with some things (there I go, alluding to "it." No, I won't say what "it" is). But I'd like to think that I can do better. I'm working on it, reading lots of books about how to live. Two of them by Phil Jackson, of all people (if you haven't read Eleven Rings or Sacred Hoops, do so now. Though a lot of Hoops is covered by the first few chapters in Rings, you still get a good reading experience). Perhaps I can make amends someday, perhaps not. But I will carry on.
Fun. were not much "fun" to my ears after being subjected to the far-too-many-times-on-the-damn-radio frequent airplay of "We Are Young" (a song that until recently I still didn't like, though time has passed and I appreciate the song a bit now that it's not every damn where). I wasn't too sure about "Some Nights", though I thought it was weird using Civil War imagery (as a "War Between the States" aficionado, I do like a good ole fashioned shoot-out between Blue and Gray). But their most recent single, "Carry On," kinda hits for me right now.
I won't go into it here, because some things are not fodder for "Trevor's gonna blog about it!" Some things just are, and as Jimmy Buffett once said, it's my own damn fault. But anyway, I can say that, in the past, I have had many, many, many crappy times where music has helped me through, and this is one of thoses.
While I won't talk about the specifics of what I won't talk about (trust me on this one), I will generally allude to the growing sense of unease as I pass from my early thirties towards something that I grew up believing was supposed to be "grown-up life." When I was young (no, that wasn't a cue for that song), I thought that age brought maturity, responsiblity taking over for fun times, the assurance that somewhere out there was a life that you could live and look back on and say "that was like a movie." Perhaps it was the Reagan Era's version of "Good Feelings," that as long as you had money and stuff you'd be alright. I know people who still cling to those notions, and while I don't begrudge them much their money or stuff, I do know that often times happiness doesn't come with a price tag (at least not an actual price tag).
But as I've gotten older, my "wiser" quotient seems to fluctuate between Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker as a punk-ass wannabe Jedi. And when I fuck up, my go-to response of humor doesn't quite cut it anymore. At least not with the people who matter.
Bad times, yes, but they will pass, maybe not today or tomorrow, but they will. I think my worst time as a person was after I got fired from my library job. I didn't have a breakdown per se, but anyone who knew me back then would probably say I was "worrisome" at the least. But I got up each morning out of bed, went looking for a job, found two jobs, and have managed somehow not to screw up majorly. A little here and there minor screw-ups, but nothing major.
I would say to anyone reading this, if you're down and weary: this too will pass. I think it's fair to say that bad times exist to remind us to cherish those fleeting "good times" we have, those that get us through when everything seems against us or we're not sure what to do because nothing has seemed to work so far. It's not what happens to you but how you deal with it that defines you. Granted, I'm pretty crappy at dealing with some things (there I go, alluding to "it." No, I won't say what "it" is). But I'd like to think that I can do better. I'm working on it, reading lots of books about how to live. Two of them by Phil Jackson, of all people (if you haven't read Eleven Rings or Sacred Hoops, do so now. Though a lot of Hoops is covered by the first few chapters in Rings, you still get a good reading experience). Perhaps I can make amends someday, perhaps not. But I will carry on.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Talking Heads, "Once In a Lifetime"
Last December, we were all eyeing the calendar nervously, awaiting the 21st like a lot of people eye an upcoming high school reunion if they've never managed to leave their parents' basement and the best job they can manage is assistant manager at Sewage Control: with dread. I want to say that I was calm, cool, and dismissive of such madness, having lived through Y2K with nary a scratch. But there was a small part of me (the part that still gets spooked by old episodes of "Unsolved Mysteries") that thought "uh oh, what if this is the end?" So I made a list of things that I wanted to do in case the world didn't end, in the thought that, if it did, I wouldn't have to.
Stupid fuckin' Mayans...
One of the things I wanted to achieve (and I believe I wrote about it here before, so excuse the repetition) is to purchase and read Moby-Dick in its entirity. Thanks to the fact that the Mayans couldn't find their ass from a hole in the ground, I set out on December 22 for the nearest Books-A-Million to get a full-on, Penguin-edition-with-intro-from-Nathaniel-Philbrick copy of "The Mobes" (as I like to call it...no, not catching on? Okay) and start pounding away at all 625 pages of it.
Last weekend, not this past one but the one before, I finished the damn thing...and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
"Moby-Dick" of course is a story of boy meets whale, boy tries to kill whale, all but one crew member perish (hey, if you didn't know how the story ends, your cultural education is sorely lacking. It's like being shocked at the end of Titanic. "What do you mean, they hit the iceberg?"). It's also one of the best double-entendre titles in all of literature. And, as a Bachelor of the Arts in English, I have plenty to say about it. Read on, if you want to hear:
First things first, don't skimp on the el cheapo versions if you want to experience Herman Melville's story. Go for the ones that are big and thick (no pun intended). As someone who's been a lifelong reader, I love the feel of books, the way that you have a sense of accomplishment when you get past a certain point in page-count for the day or in terms of where you are in the story. I'm sure someday I might splurge for a Kindle or something, but so far I'm good with the old-fashioned version of books. You can't dog-ear a tablet.
Secondly, the story itself: sure, the ship sinks in the end, but the voyage it (and you) goes on is worth all the overlong examinations of just what whales are and what they mean. Ishmael, the main character, is probably one of the weirdest but most endearing narrators in all literature; he's just a guy in need of a job (with perhaps an unhealthy obsession with sperm whale anatomy) who signs up for the Good Ship Lollipop of possibly Satanic captains with their own unhealthy obsessions with sperm whales (and their own anatomy). He kinda disappears as a main character midway through, and even seems to be unusually aware of things that, if he were simply as he presents himself (a crewman on a whale boat), he would have no way of knowing about. But it's a novel, not a non-fiction story, and you can kinda do whatever the hell you want in a novel. As long as the reader is willing to follow along.
The language of the book can be daunting if you have no previous exposure to nineteenth-century literature (I honestly think that, if I didn't already have an appreciation for Jane Austen and one or two of the Bronte sisters, I would've been hopelessly lost). Melville has a lot to say (about six-hundred pages' worth), and sometimes I had to take a break from the book because I needed a rest (thus why it took me almost five months to finish). But it's one of those books that you can put down for a time and pick back up with very little lost in terms of finding your way back around. For such a thick book, the chapters themselves (when it's not Ishamel telling you more than you ever wanted to know about what's inside a sperm whale, for instance) are pretty short, almost alarmingly so; I'd start a chapter on one page, turn to find it concluding well before the end of the next page, and wonder what the hell happened. But you get used to it once you really get into it.
So my review (and thus, the reference to the Talking Heads song in the title of this essay): reading "Moby-Dick" can definitely disorient you by being possibly the most difficult book you'll ever read. But do try and pick it up at least once or twice, and stick with it if you can. I doubt I'll ever feel the urge to read any more Melville, but "Moby-Dick" does stand up as being a classic (and not just in the way that Mark Twain defined a "classic" as a book that everyone agreed deserved the title but no one bothered to actually read). Put aside some time for Ahab, he'll lead you to ruin but you can always come up for air. It really is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and you can impress friends at parties.
Assuming that the parties you go to are attended by fellow English majors...
Stupid fuckin' Mayans...
One of the things I wanted to achieve (and I believe I wrote about it here before, so excuse the repetition) is to purchase and read Moby-Dick in its entirity. Thanks to the fact that the Mayans couldn't find their ass from a hole in the ground, I set out on December 22 for the nearest Books-A-Million to get a full-on, Penguin-edition-with-intro-from-Nathaniel-Philbrick copy of "The Mobes" (as I like to call it...no, not catching on? Okay) and start pounding away at all 625 pages of it.
Last weekend, not this past one but the one before, I finished the damn thing...and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
"Moby-Dick" of course is a story of boy meets whale, boy tries to kill whale, all but one crew member perish (hey, if you didn't know how the story ends, your cultural education is sorely lacking. It's like being shocked at the end of Titanic. "What do you mean, they hit the iceberg?"). It's also one of the best double-entendre titles in all of literature. And, as a Bachelor of the Arts in English, I have plenty to say about it. Read on, if you want to hear:
First things first, don't skimp on the el cheapo versions if you want to experience Herman Melville's story. Go for the ones that are big and thick (no pun intended). As someone who's been a lifelong reader, I love the feel of books, the way that you have a sense of accomplishment when you get past a certain point in page-count for the day or in terms of where you are in the story. I'm sure someday I might splurge for a Kindle or something, but so far I'm good with the old-fashioned version of books. You can't dog-ear a tablet.
Secondly, the story itself: sure, the ship sinks in the end, but the voyage it (and you) goes on is worth all the overlong examinations of just what whales are and what they mean. Ishmael, the main character, is probably one of the weirdest but most endearing narrators in all literature; he's just a guy in need of a job (with perhaps an unhealthy obsession with sperm whale anatomy) who signs up for the Good Ship Lollipop of possibly Satanic captains with their own unhealthy obsessions with sperm whales (and their own anatomy). He kinda disappears as a main character midway through, and even seems to be unusually aware of things that, if he were simply as he presents himself (a crewman on a whale boat), he would have no way of knowing about. But it's a novel, not a non-fiction story, and you can kinda do whatever the hell you want in a novel. As long as the reader is willing to follow along.
The language of the book can be daunting if you have no previous exposure to nineteenth-century literature (I honestly think that, if I didn't already have an appreciation for Jane Austen and one or two of the Bronte sisters, I would've been hopelessly lost). Melville has a lot to say (about six-hundred pages' worth), and sometimes I had to take a break from the book because I needed a rest (thus why it took me almost five months to finish). But it's one of those books that you can put down for a time and pick back up with very little lost in terms of finding your way back around. For such a thick book, the chapters themselves (when it's not Ishamel telling you more than you ever wanted to know about what's inside a sperm whale, for instance) are pretty short, almost alarmingly so; I'd start a chapter on one page, turn to find it concluding well before the end of the next page, and wonder what the hell happened. But you get used to it once you really get into it.
So my review (and thus, the reference to the Talking Heads song in the title of this essay): reading "Moby-Dick" can definitely disorient you by being possibly the most difficult book you'll ever read. But do try and pick it up at least once or twice, and stick with it if you can. I doubt I'll ever feel the urge to read any more Melville, but "Moby-Dick" does stand up as being a classic (and not just in the way that Mark Twain defined a "classic" as a book that everyone agreed deserved the title but no one bothered to actually read). Put aside some time for Ahab, he'll lead you to ruin but you can always come up for air. It really is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and you can impress friends at parties.
Assuming that the parties you go to are attended by fellow English majors...
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