My “To Read” list is daunting. It’s longevity haunts me, flaunting it’s names of pretentious classics. Pretentious, I say, only for the gratuitous BS that booklovers tend to offer about them. Though I can’t say much, because I myself am an English major, one that can find symbolism in anything, be it a photograph, sentence, or a song.
Instead of getting shorter, my list continually gets longer, almost by the day. Just today a friend of mine lent me two more books to add to it. I can’t finish one book before purchasing two more. It’s truly a disease, a love of something that is technically material.
So I’m dedicating my next four years to the study of something completely subjective. All because I love it. Who knows where it may take me, for that I am still unsure. All I know at the moment is that I’ll be hearing (and offering) my fair share of literary BS. And I’m pumped.
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