
I've skipped work to loiter at a coffee shop. It's only because hazelnut lattes and literature make one of the best combinations in the universe. Then again, karma exists because 1) I walked in the rain wearing a white t-shirt, and 2) my latte was made by the not-so-great barista, "Mr X." But who needs to get paid? I'm not a capitalist, I'm a godless hippie who likes to read.
Anyway, I learned a very valuable life lesson a couple weeks ago. During a conference with my professor, he complimented my commentary on the novel we'd read. Thing is, I must've been wearing a shit-eating grin having heard him say in his totally awesome British accent, You're a bit of a mystery to me. Your writing is too good, because he then proceeded to ask me if I'd plagiarized my analysis (I hadn't). But he let me stutter and mumble explanations and apologies for a good minute before he finally rolled his eyes and said he'd bothered to copy/paste my entries online to look for evidence of academic thievery and found none (because I hadn't!!). So, lesson learned: always wear a pokerface when two feet away from green-eyed men. Or something like that.
Not only do I recommend Vladimir Nabokov's Despair (who knew Russians could be so witty?), but also Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day:
Current Location: Glazers
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