I realized the other day that despite having been an English major in college, I haven’t really been reading for pleasure very much lately unless you count snarky websites, glossy magazines, and comic books. I remember telling myself when I was still in school that graduating would be great because I’d have so much more time to read “whatever I want.” I’ve been meaning to get around to reading The Brothers Karamazov ever since, but cut me some slack – Guitar Hero 2 just came out. I’m totally gonna read some Russian classics as soon as I get 5 stars on Misirlou on Expert Mode.
So I was sitting around the other night, feeling guilty for letting my brain rot, when I got inspired and decided to scan through the contents of my bookshelf in search of some stimulation. I figured maybe I should read some books that I own but have never read. Sounds like a good enough plan, doesn’t it? Think about it: they’re sitting right there in my living room! All I have to do is open the cover and start absorbing! How easy!
Well, not quite. Here’s the problem: At some point in my life I bought these books with the intention of reading them. Maybe I started reading them but got bored in the middle. Maybe I only made it a few pages in and then decided I’d rather play Counterstrike or something. Maybe I never even opened the damn thing but thought it made me look smart sitting on my shelf. No matter what the reason was for not reading these books, there’s one underlying fact shared by every possible explanation: I was more excited to read these books when I bought them than I am now.
Which probably explains why as I scanned the shelves looking for something new and exciting, every unread book I came across made me kind of shudder a little. Here’s a handful of them in no particular order.