I have always been astounded that the siblinghood of voracious readers does not include every human on the earth. And some dogs.
And I cannot fathom how to make people understand that I don’t read just for the story. I introduced a friend of mine (who hates reading, btw) to Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. That book, I’ve read probably a billion times by now, and I can almost recite it loud by heart. This pitiful friend looked up the story on Wikipedia, and then told me that was that.
I swear, I felt like crying. You cannot do this to Jane Austen. That woman is an ocean of sarcasm, irony, wit and humour. You cannot just disregard the joys of language, and assume that if you know that Elizabeth Bennet finally does marry Mr. Darcy, that is the total amount of joy you’re going to get out of the book. These people don’t know what they’re missing.
I’m still licking my wounds. I console myself with thinking that there are others who understand what I’m going through.
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