Anti-Spoiler Alert: This post does not contain any gross stories. Nor is it trying to prove a point by jabbing fingers. It’s just a tease, really. Ready?
I am halfway through “Eating Animals” by Jonathan Safran Foer.
A good friend gave me his first novel, Everything is Illuminated, which I devoured winter quarter of last year. And I bought and read his second, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, earlier this summer. I blew through it as if maybe the next page is hiding a twenty. No? Surely, this one! No? The next? Of course, there wasn’t any money hiding in the book. But reading a good book is like slowly accumulating a vast fortune. Once you have finished reading it, you can give all of the money away and magically retain it at the same time. Foer’s first two books are breathtaking and unsettling. Unsettling, as the topics are respectively the Holocaust and September 11. A good artist finds beauty in tragedy and meaning in the meaningless. Foer does this while demonstrating an acute eye for detail and the drive to change how readers expect words to appear on paper.
This is a little hybrid post.
1. Thank you all for your response to fresh abloom. I have been waiting for the right time to write about depression, so the kind words were affirming.
2. I just started reading Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer, one of my favorite modern authors. Once I’ve finished I’ll probably blog about food, vegetarianism, animals, God, humanity, or a combination of these. Be on the lookout for that! (Disclaimer: I love meat.)
3. Three weeks is all I have left of my internship at Bethany Christian Services. The ESL classes just ended, and I will miss my students/friends greatly. I may post about this as well.
4. In the mean time, here is a very short essay I used in one of my college applications a while ago:
I am not, by any means, a dictionary-thumping defender of the English language or even a potential English major, but I do have boundaries. I am more sensitive to certain aspects of spoken language than most of my classmates. My dad was raised in Virginia, my mother in New York, and my sister and I in Manchester, New Hampshire. While I lived in New Hampshire, I was endlessly irked by the locals’ tendency to throw r’s onto words like “Asia,” making it “A-zhur.” Now that I’m in Michigan, I’ve noticed some pronunciation mixups of the Midwest such as, “He drove acrosst my yard.” I normally let it slide, but I occasionally feel the need to gently suggest a t-removal procedure. Since these trifles get under my skin, it makes me happy when a perceptive person hears me speak and asks afterwards, “Where are you from?”