My professor (one of the most formidably intelligent and utterly terrifying individuals I've ever had the privilege to work with) cast a pained glance over the class (each of us mentally cursing our colleague's ballsy and potentially heretical bout of honesty).
"But that's tragic." She wrung her hands. "You're treating literature like... vitamins."
Such is the horror of those demi-gods and goddesses who have never wrestled with what constitutes a guilty pleasure. They genuinely enjoy exercise and opera. They don't own sweatpants. Cheeseburgers gross them out - they don't understand why you wouldn't prefer green tea and a salad.
|Scholar Dude likes candlelit dinners, long walks on the beach, and never seeing movie adaptations of classic literature.|
For my part, I've been burning through the essays and short fiction of David Foster Wallace lately. Maybe I have a vitamin deficiency that's got me craving acerbic wit and frustrated optimism. Maybe I just love his writing. Maybe you would too.