Monday, June 12, 2006

journal entry

The other day, as I considered what to read next, I thought about how it would look on the blog.

I caught that thought and looked at it a minute with distaste. Many of the small decisions I make are designed to meet the expectations of others--and we all make these efforts to oil the wheels of society; who could function as a total anarchist?--but I have always reserved for myself the freedom to read according to my tastes and my mood, setting my own boundaries for what I wanted to read and/or felt I should read.

So as I look at my previous entries, I see a trend towards escapist lit. Not an ounce of redeeming intellectual value in the bunch. I could make an argument for The Maltese Falcon, but the genre of which it is definitive is--hardboiled detective fiction, hardly a tower of literary respectibility. I considered arguing the psychology of it, but why bother? I may submit my own reading list to the public or semi-public eye, but I am not going to justify it. One person has their escapist lit, another their TV remote. I read what I read, and while my interests are varied, I explore them at my whim.

Suum cuique. Or, cada loco con su tema.


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