Something drastic has occured: I’ve suspended delivery of Confessions of an Opium Eater. I always finish books I start, even if it’s terrible. But I could suffer no longer, and went to DailyLit (a service that emails installments of a selection of books) and suspended it. You know what–I feel great. Light as a feather. Free.
Why do I feel a compulsion to finish? It’s gives a sense of completeness to my negative judgement, but why else? If it’s really terrible, why woudl I care about the end? It’s as if I had a duty to finish anything I pick up. If only that extended past my reading habits! It is much easier to quit a DailyLit subscription–they cater to a variety of tastes if you want to fit some literature in your workaday lives.
However, this is not quite Fit the Last. I’m still reading the Hunting of the Snark, which never ceases to bring a smile to my face. The beaver and butcher (or is it the bellman?) have become friends, and the company has discussed means of catching the Snark. Mostly the traditional ones, such as hunt it with a thimble and care and such stuff. Recently, the barrister had a dream, attempting to prove that lace-making would not help to find the Snark. The Snark took over the courtroom.
I would totally buy a Snark suffed animal. I wonder what it would look like. Would it make me vanish? No, that’s the Bojum. Now that’s a nasty beast.
Confession of an Opium Admirer:
After sleeping in on this grey morning, I read more of Thomas De Quincey’s Confessions of an Opium Eater, which so far has been platitudes and childhood autobiography instead of those sordid details I craved. I thought of the tasks and chores before me this morning and afternoon, and how much chillier it outside, and the trouble of getting dressed, and–I confess– opium eating sounds delightful. Opium sounds like the sport of bedside philosophers, princes of thought, and the coffee I have in my hand the bitter encouragement given to worker ants.
Poor lost snark hunters, with no opium to comfort them
After all, there’s a reason that I am reading the Confessions concurrent to Lewis Carrol’s The Hunting of the Snark. Either the Confessions need to pan out more, or I need to secure some opium.