So here I sit looking at one of my bookshelves. Who am I kidding? I will never reread The Naked and the Dead. I will never get around to Three Plays by Sean O'Casey. Nor will I attempt to finish The Collected Stories of Tennessee Williams. Nausea by Sartre? Please. I have enough stress. Even in a blizzard I shall ignore these.
Why don't I just give them to Salvation Army?
Because these, like dozens of other masterpieces that line my shelves, define the intellectual rigor with which I approach life. Watching me walk through a Shoprite parking lot, you would cease loading bags into your trunk and take note--that is a man with serious intellectual rigor.
I will read mysteries by Henning Mankell because he has a cool name and is Scandinavian I will ignore the dirty parts in D.H. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers and examine it for sentence structure.
I will always keep an unread Jonathan Franzen book on my coffee table in case I get a visitor. I will listen for his intake of breath as he contemplates the kind of mind who is hosting. First I need to find someone willing to come over and share thoughts. The super is always busy and the woman upstairs keeps yelling at her dog.
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