I love reading, but have hated discussing books of late. It is probably the people I work with, but their reading of any book tends to be taking the narrative at face value without any consideration for the characters.
When I was reading Fahrenheit 451 and everyone at work said simply that book banning was bad as the deepest thought incited by the work, I was saddened.
It wasn't the books; it was the thought that was banned. I thought that was straightforward and mentioned straight out numerous times in the text.
I know, to each his own and all of that. It just feels so lonely and so very...Fahrenheit 451.
Reading The Jungle by Upton Sinclair right now, and thoroughly enjoying it. Finished Franny and Zooey by Salinger and Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston earlier this week, and enjoyed both.
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It's a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken
Perhaps they're better left unsung
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