Book burnout occurs when we let optimization tools such as speed reading bleed into the activity of reading books purely for personal enjoyment.
I don’t often read Reddit, but a recent question-turned-confession titled “I think I’ve fallen in love with a fictional character” caught my attention: “I know people get crushes on fictional characters all the time, but this has gone beyond a crush. I’m infatuated with him. … [H]e’s the first thing
Warning: This column contains spoilers. “Gone Girl” by Gillian Flynn begins: “When I think of my wife, I always think of her head. The shape of it, to begin with. And what’s inside it. I think of that too: her mind. Her brain, all those coils, and her thoughts shuttling
Reading is not often thought of as a particularly risky passion. Sure, you can argue that it expands your mind to dangerously new heights or that books are addictive. But overall, it’s a safer choice than, let’s say, skydiving, or training poisonous snakes, or recreating “Die Hard” car chase scenes.
I’m sitting at a mahogany table; it’s big and round and shrinks the classroom to half its real size. My classmates fill the spaces at the table’s circumference, listening, talking, pondering, ruminating. I have ideas brewing in my mind. But when I come to verbalize them, I fall short of
It was “One Hundred Years of Solitude” that first made me sign up for Spanish classes in the sixth grade. I hadn’t even read Gabriel García Márquez’s landmark work yet. Really, I had only heard the first line: “Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía
From my early years to around late middle school, I inhabited the role of the quiet, shy, and excruciatingly reserved kid. My life was chiefly internal — I withheld everything tightly into my tiny frame. While I had strong bonds with my friends, and deep extracurricular interests to foster my
Abs so sculpted they belong in an art museum. Luscious, flowing-with-the-breeze, heartthrob hair. Heaving bosoms in low-cut, lace dresses. I’ve been reading a lot of romance novels recently. Somehow, I’ve managed to get away with writing a senior thesis about them, which means I’ve seen cover after cover with all
It is the mere possibility of alien existence that enables us to walk into the tight-knit, exclusive hangout down the hall, feeling a little less awkward and flushed than the time before. Let me explain. When I think of the quintessential alien of the science fiction genre, I immediately see
Richard Steele, an 18th century Irish writer who always looks like he just ate something sour, wrote: “Reading is to the mind what exercise is to the body.” Well, Richard, sometimes my body doesn’t want to wake up at 6 a.m. to go on a run before my 8 a.m.