an extended abridged quote because i'm still not done reading this book:
Older girls, like babysitters or a friend's sister in high school, were pedestaled beings with perfect jean jackets. They were white girls mostly. Close-talkers with side-swept bangs who never appeared too wowed by anything, because they had yet to and might never encounter what it means to be denied. I coveted their casual nature, believing their incuriosity was a sign of self-possession; of not harboring some secret longing to be seen. Seen alone, not in comparison or as other, or through the bewildering construction of compliments that seemed to only further other. [...]
Even their bad skin conveyed a type of beauty that desperately drew me in because it wasn't beauty alone. It was notional. What I perceived as built-in unhindered-ness. Like ripping and ruining one's clothes at one's pleasure. Drawing with ballpoint pen on the rubber sidewall of one's Converse--a truly satisfying motion, actually. It was things done just because. It was disinterest. Inconceivable amounts of it. How exquisite I thought it would be to not care.
jeudi 21 mars 2019
dimanche 13 janvier 2019
feelings??
last night wes and i were sitting in my room playing music to each other and talking about how the music made us felt - like how shostakovich's jazz waltz no. 2 was a checkerboard-floor ballroom with several couples dancing in sync, the women's identical long skirts twirling in unison. i showed him rex orange county (which he didn't seem to like) but i said that this was some guy our age in london with acne who made music about how much he loved his girlfriend, which wes thought was cute. then i showed him "les yeux d'elsa" by louis aragon (which by the way is not the same in english translation at all) and told him it was about this guy's love for his wife. (also, after doing some reading over the vac for an essay on surrealism i found out that aragon was a hardcore communist and a surrealist, which is so interesting because that poem itself feels like a really conventional work of french literature with meter and rhyme and fancy words and all that.)
at the same time i was reading both "too much and not the mood" by durga chew-bose (which i bought at blackwell's after reading that interview) and jenny zhang's "how it feels" online, again. (and then also "having a coke with you.") both durga and jenny zhang's works have this honesty but they could not be more different: zhang's poem is this typical zhang relentlessly raw and unflinching work that makes me want to self-annihilate every time i read it, like i really just want to disappear off the face of the earth because i just cannot deal with the emotions that she doles out on a platter like that, it is just unbearable how much feeling there is in that piece, like, oh my god?
and durga's honesty is sincere and tender and gentle. i'm still in her first essay called "heart museum" and she's talking about all the times her heart has skipped, and the soft way in which she talks about the feelings she had when she was in love - she isn't embarrassed at all to talk about her emotions. i don't understand how people can be so absolutely vulnerable in writing, immortalising the strength of the way they felt.
when i write, sometimes i feign authenticity - sometimes it sounds like i'm being vulnerable and honest, but i truly have not been for years. and when i look back at actually honest works i cringe so hard that i just want to die. why am i so afraid of having emotions? or more specifically of letting other people know i have emotions? it seems so embarrassing... and yet i am bouleversée, bowled over, by other people's emotions. like frank iero's "they wanted darkness", the absolute teen angst of that, that feeling of being so sad and angry and resentful and truly feeling like you're the only person in the world who feels that way, that self-absorption and self-indulgence and lack of shame... let's face it, i could never write about myself in such an open and unbothered way. maybe my destiny is to be like elif batuman, cynical and over-reflective, opting for the filters of self-deprecation and witty self-awareness, opting for telling stories about herself and for teleology instead of having to face the fact that those periods of angst and agony we went through were completely... completely... arbitrary and never did lead up to any kind of vindicative or conclusive moment where everything fell into place like a common app essay.
i guess i'm supposed to become a semiotician ... i'm too obsessed with meaning.
at the same time i was reading both "too much and not the mood" by durga chew-bose (which i bought at blackwell's after reading that interview) and jenny zhang's "how it feels" online, again. (and then also "having a coke with you.") both durga and jenny zhang's works have this honesty but they could not be more different: zhang's poem is this typical zhang relentlessly raw and unflinching work that makes me want to self-annihilate every time i read it, like i really just want to disappear off the face of the earth because i just cannot deal with the emotions that she doles out on a platter like that, it is just unbearable how much feeling there is in that piece, like, oh my god?
and durga's honesty is sincere and tender and gentle. i'm still in her first essay called "heart museum" and she's talking about all the times her heart has skipped, and the soft way in which she talks about the feelings she had when she was in love - she isn't embarrassed at all to talk about her emotions. i don't understand how people can be so absolutely vulnerable in writing, immortalising the strength of the way they felt.
when i write, sometimes i feign authenticity - sometimes it sounds like i'm being vulnerable and honest, but i truly have not been for years. and when i look back at actually honest works i cringe so hard that i just want to die. why am i so afraid of having emotions? or more specifically of letting other people know i have emotions? it seems so embarrassing... and yet i am bouleversée, bowled over, by other people's emotions. like frank iero's "they wanted darkness", the absolute teen angst of that, that feeling of being so sad and angry and resentful and truly feeling like you're the only person in the world who feels that way, that self-absorption and self-indulgence and lack of shame... let's face it, i could never write about myself in such an open and unbothered way. maybe my destiny is to be like elif batuman, cynical and over-reflective, opting for the filters of self-deprecation and witty self-awareness, opting for telling stories about herself and for teleology instead of having to face the fact that those periods of angst and agony we went through were completely... completely... arbitrary and never did lead up to any kind of vindicative or conclusive moment where everything fell into place like a common app essay.
i guess i'm supposed to become a semiotician ... i'm too obsessed with meaning.
jeudi 10 janvier 2019
bad poems #10: feeling like white noise at the social science department café where i like to study because it has an almost perfect level of white noise noise that doesn't suffocate like complete silence does but also isn't too loud or distracting (except during lunchtimes when people sit at my table and speak at length about their boring lives) and where i can get a hot drink for very cheap
i
earlier i spilled tea
all over myself in the
ssl café
ii
55p tea
regular, milk and sugar
in a huge cup that
iii
i didn't put a
lid on because... i don't know
i guess i'm just dumb
iv
i was opening
my notebook to check something
about h. wölfflin
v
when it fell over
a burning sensation on
my lap and my thighs
vi
it splashed on the floor
(but thank god not my laptop)
i had to move spots
vii
my body was moist
my brand new brown pants felt cold
against my sad skin
viii
only after a
while did i notice that my
favorite shirt, which
ix
i bought in japan
was wet, and would stain slowly
as it dried, a brown
x
patch with dark edges
i thought about going home
(which was very close)
xi
to change my shirt and
soak this one before it stains
but i had only
xii
recently arrived
at the ssl to do
some work, finally
xiii
and could not bear the
waste of time and energy
i also could not
xiv
simply take off
my shirt because the turtle-
neck is see through. so
xv
i have been sitting
here, sunken into a deep
inexplicable
xvi
state of depression
as if that tea had been my
only connection
xvii
to some kind of will
to live. i don't know if this
stain will wash out now
xviii
and it fills me with
incomprehensible sadness.
i'm demotivated.
xix
i was going to
go to edamame but
i don't think curry
xx
will heal me today.
nothing seems to matter now
all i want is to
xxi
lie in my bed and...
wait. no, not that. i want to...
i don't know. i want...
xxii
some kind of respite
(temporary) from being
conscious and feeling
xxiii
so i can stop this
void that has opened itself
in my tea-stained chest.
mercredi 9 janvier 2019
an article i saw
I've been procrastinating studying for my collections and found this really interesting interview where two close friends who are both writers have a conversation that's mainly about one of them, Durga Chew-Bose's, book of essays that's just been published. I just thought it was really cool and interesting and makes me want to go out and write more too so I'll paste the link here for future reference: https://www.bookforum.com/interview/17729
vendredi 28 décembre 2018
the possessed
I just read The Possessed, Elif Batuman's first book, about her various encounters with Russian literature during the time in university and at her PhD when she was studying it. As with all of her work, it is funny, engaging, highly fascinating, and very thought-provoking. Some notes:
Within the first few pages Batuman recounts her freshman year experience taking beginner's Russian and falling in love with a guy in her class, then going to Budapest to teach English in the summer - the plot of The Idiot. I'd always known that The Idiot was based on her life (not because I did that much research or anything but because it obviously was, just from the setting and stuff like that), but I never realised that it was exactly her life. I'd assumed that at least some of it was completely made up for narrative interest, like the story about the physicist that she reads for her class, which felt so weird and surreal that it must've been made up. But even that actually happened. I don't know... for some strange, inexplicable reason, I feel a bit betrayed and sad that basically everything is true but with the names changed a little. Maybe it's because, although I love The Idiot in part because it makes being a lonely student with not much to do seem as cool as anything else, it still has all this interesting stuff that happens that doesn't feel real. I really don't know. But somehow this has slightly dampened my enjoyment of the novel.
Like in The Idiot, Batuman's voice is so unique here. The way that she observes everything happening around her and makes all these observations of the small details makes the incredibly normal things appear magical or absurd. But after a while it kind of gets on your nerves... she starts to come off as arrogant, because there is little about her as a person -- it's all just her perspective and the way she sees others. So when everyone she meets is a little weird, it makes it seem like she thinks she's superior to them all- she's the only normal, sane person in this crazy world of landladies who force their guests to eat ant-infested jam when they do in fact have good jam and of respected professors who poop their pants in public. Even the Old Uzbek stories, filtered through her teacher, become slightly comical. Just by virtue of pointing anything out at all, Batuman manages to make what she has pointed out feel weird. It reminds me of when my friend from Oxford, Jason, came to stay in Geneva for a weekend while he was traveling and he would point something out about my house, like the London 2012 Olympics keyring we'd bought but never gifted that had stayed, still inside the original packaging, on top of a wardrobe in the hallway until now. And suddenly I would feel super self-conscious and awkward about the presence of that keyring, even though he'd meant nothing by pointing it out. Even though it had been a neutral observation. I guess it goes back to Sartre, and the vulnerability of being seen - the fact that the second that something is seen/recognised/acknowledged there's immediately this idea of shame associated with it, of like, "Oh no, I've been discovered." I even told Jason that he reminded me of Elif Batuman. It's not that Batuman is being malicious when she characterises the people she encounters in that way, but the fact that she wittingly describes them as these sort of eccentric, nonsensical people just feels, after a while, kind of mean-spirited. It feels like everyone she meets is just a caricature, that nobody can really please her or come off as just... normal. It feels like everyone is being mocked - like that high school girl who exchanges open-mouthed, wide-eyed, laughing scoffs with her friends when you walk past (even if it might not be about you), making you feel like the most worthless, insignificant insect in the whole world. And while the reader is meant to partake in this inside joke of 'look how weird these people are', you start to feel a bit uncomfortable at the way Elif/Selin navigates life, as some kind of cynical/ironic bystander who describes other peoples' eccentricities for our private amusement. You don't really want to be that person.
Anyways. I still love Batuman and want her to adopt me. I'll close off with this quote that she says about Isaac Babel but which is also a big theme from The Idiot and which I think about a lot. I'm not sure if I relate to it or not.
"Babel wasn't alienated from life––to the contrary, he sought it out––but he was incapable of living it otherwise than as the material for literature."
edit: Just to add.... Elif Batuman has honestly had my dream life. Harvard undergrad (completed in three years) and then 7 years doing a PhD at Stanford, all the while writing for magazines and travelling a lot... and now the author of two books. Also she's funny and so beautiful. OMG Elif please be my mentor I wanna be like you <3
Within the first few pages Batuman recounts her freshman year experience taking beginner's Russian and falling in love with a guy in her class, then going to Budapest to teach English in the summer - the plot of The Idiot. I'd always known that The Idiot was based on her life (not because I did that much research or anything but because it obviously was, just from the setting and stuff like that), but I never realised that it was exactly her life. I'd assumed that at least some of it was completely made up for narrative interest, like the story about the physicist that she reads for her class, which felt so weird and surreal that it must've been made up. But even that actually happened. I don't know... for some strange, inexplicable reason, I feel a bit betrayed and sad that basically everything is true but with the names changed a little. Maybe it's because, although I love The Idiot in part because it makes being a lonely student with not much to do seem as cool as anything else, it still has all this interesting stuff that happens that doesn't feel real. I really don't know. But somehow this has slightly dampened my enjoyment of the novel.
Like in The Idiot, Batuman's voice is so unique here. The way that she observes everything happening around her and makes all these observations of the small details makes the incredibly normal things appear magical or absurd. But after a while it kind of gets on your nerves... she starts to come off as arrogant, because there is little about her as a person -- it's all just her perspective and the way she sees others. So when everyone she meets is a little weird, it makes it seem like she thinks she's superior to them all- she's the only normal, sane person in this crazy world of landladies who force their guests to eat ant-infested jam when they do in fact have good jam and of respected professors who poop their pants in public. Even the Old Uzbek stories, filtered through her teacher, become slightly comical. Just by virtue of pointing anything out at all, Batuman manages to make what she has pointed out feel weird. It reminds me of when my friend from Oxford, Jason, came to stay in Geneva for a weekend while he was traveling and he would point something out about my house, like the London 2012 Olympics keyring we'd bought but never gifted that had stayed, still inside the original packaging, on top of a wardrobe in the hallway until now. And suddenly I would feel super self-conscious and awkward about the presence of that keyring, even though he'd meant nothing by pointing it out. Even though it had been a neutral observation. I guess it goes back to Sartre, and the vulnerability of being seen - the fact that the second that something is seen/recognised/acknowledged there's immediately this idea of shame associated with it, of like, "Oh no, I've been discovered." I even told Jason that he reminded me of Elif Batuman. It's not that Batuman is being malicious when she characterises the people she encounters in that way, but the fact that she wittingly describes them as these sort of eccentric, nonsensical people just feels, after a while, kind of mean-spirited. It feels like everyone she meets is just a caricature, that nobody can really please her or come off as just... normal. It feels like everyone is being mocked - like that high school girl who exchanges open-mouthed, wide-eyed, laughing scoffs with her friends when you walk past (even if it might not be about you), making you feel like the most worthless, insignificant insect in the whole world. And while the reader is meant to partake in this inside joke of 'look how weird these people are', you start to feel a bit uncomfortable at the way Elif/Selin navigates life, as some kind of cynical/ironic bystander who describes other peoples' eccentricities for our private amusement. You don't really want to be that person.
Anyways. I still love Batuman and want her to adopt me. I'll close off with this quote that she says about Isaac Babel but which is also a big theme from The Idiot and which I think about a lot. I'm not sure if I relate to it or not.
"Babel wasn't alienated from life––to the contrary, he sought it out––but he was incapable of living it otherwise than as the material for literature."
edit: Just to add.... Elif Batuman has honestly had my dream life. Harvard undergrad (completed in three years) and then 7 years doing a PhD at Stanford, all the while writing for magazines and travelling a lot... and now the author of two books. Also she's funny and so beautiful. OMG Elif please be my mentor I wanna be like you <3
lundi 24 décembre 2018
julie, julia, and nora
So Netflix has pushed Julie and Julia to me a lot but I never had any interest in it at all. A few weeks ago I read Nora Ephron's personal essay in the New Yorker (https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2006/02/13/serial-monogamy) and thought it was quite cute. Then the other day I thought again about Julie and Julia and how it's meant to be about a modern woman engaging with Julia Child through her cookbook and was like, "Oh my god this is a Nora Ephron movie isn't it." Sure enough Ephron was all over the credits - she wrote, produced, and directed it.
Anyway, here's my Letterboxd review:
“Women’s narratives,” she said, “need to be relational in the first instance, and not dialectical.”
I've been thinking about this because in some ways it feels true. In some ways I want it to be true, because then all this resentment and bitterness I have about men appears easily explained, that there's this inherent difference in the way men and women behave because of the way they've been socialised to think and to relate to people. But I'm also wary of generalising, because if you take this to the extreme you'd be saying that men are inherently violent and women aren't - which apart from being wrong is also quite dangerous because it would then excuse violence from men as 'boys will be boys' and would treat male violence as something uncurable and inevitable. But of course that's not what Lai is saying: she also talks about how women can actually be really nasty to each other and that's an aspect she wanted to explore in her books.
I've also struggled a lot with her use of the word "dialectical". Does she mean dialectical like a struggle, like a class struggle, between two sides? Or just a Socratic dialogue where two sides talk to each other to solve a problem? Because that's two completely different things and dialectics can mean either or both (or not??? IDK I'm very bad at grasping complex theory that has many explanations because the concept has been written about by different thinkers. I once cried in front of my tutor after class because I was frustrated by the ambiguous definition of the words 'semiotics' and 'structuralism'.) I guess in this context she means the former, because it would be the opposite of relational.
All this is to say is I've been wondering what kind of narrative would be a more feminine one, a relational one that's less about defeating evil. I haven't really found anything but I guess I'd say that Julie and Julia is one. But I'm wary of doing that because it's literally a movie about cooking. And what would that say about women? Lol.
I don't want to make this too long and I'm a bit annoyed that this is the first post (as far as I remember) that I'm making about the topic of Lai's relational narrative because it's literally been on my mind for months and I haven't formulated any real thoughts. This post is yet another ramble with no real aim. But I guess that's what blogs are for.
Also lol, Julie Powell just started a blog and left it there and didn't do anything to promote it (apart from telling her friends I guess) and suddenly it has a ton of readers?? How does that even happen, like how did they even find the website. There are so many websites wtf. Why can't this happen to this blog.
Anyway, here's my Letterboxd review:
this is SO WHOLESOMe also the fact that nora ephron also engaged so much with cookbooks... i loveI just wanted to add that ever since I interviewed Canadian science fiction author Larissa Lai for Sine Theta's 8th issue back in September, I've been thinking a lot about this one thing she said, about the inherently patriarchal nature of traditional Campbellian hero journey narratives. I even quoted her in a footnote in my Greenberg essay when I make a side note on the patriarchal language in one of the secondary sources. She said that traditional narratives are driven by a black-and-white understanding of conflict: good versus evil, like Lord of the Rings or Star Wars. She said that they're stories about the boy needing to kill the father in order to come into manhood. But women don't want to kill their mothers - they want to have relationships with them.
edit a lot of the reviews on letterboxd are like these stories arent interesting because theres no real conflict or growth and ok sure but also not all stories have to be really dramatic to be interesting... i loved that this was about how passion and hard work and INTEREST in something can really touch and change your life, and that you can measure your life by the “mundane” things like what you cook and what you wear and **ahem** the films you watch. in a time of information overload its important to cherish the times we really do engage with something. ive just started actually cooking these past few months and even though i dont follow recipes (and prob never will bc im impatient) and also hate french food, i felt connected to this too. and obviously so did producer/writer/director + new yorker article author nora ephron !
“Women’s narratives,” she said, “need to be relational in the first instance, and not dialectical.”
I've been thinking about this because in some ways it feels true. In some ways I want it to be true, because then all this resentment and bitterness I have about men appears easily explained, that there's this inherent difference in the way men and women behave because of the way they've been socialised to think and to relate to people. But I'm also wary of generalising, because if you take this to the extreme you'd be saying that men are inherently violent and women aren't - which apart from being wrong is also quite dangerous because it would then excuse violence from men as 'boys will be boys' and would treat male violence as something uncurable and inevitable. But of course that's not what Lai is saying: she also talks about how women can actually be really nasty to each other and that's an aspect she wanted to explore in her books.
I've also struggled a lot with her use of the word "dialectical". Does she mean dialectical like a struggle, like a class struggle, between two sides? Or just a Socratic dialogue where two sides talk to each other to solve a problem? Because that's two completely different things and dialectics can mean either or both (or not??? IDK I'm very bad at grasping complex theory that has many explanations because the concept has been written about by different thinkers. I once cried in front of my tutor after class because I was frustrated by the ambiguous definition of the words 'semiotics' and 'structuralism'.) I guess in this context she means the former, because it would be the opposite of relational.
All this is to say is I've been wondering what kind of narrative would be a more feminine one, a relational one that's less about defeating evil. I haven't really found anything but I guess I'd say that Julie and Julia is one. But I'm wary of doing that because it's literally a movie about cooking. And what would that say about women? Lol.
I don't want to make this too long and I'm a bit annoyed that this is the first post (as far as I remember) that I'm making about the topic of Lai's relational narrative because it's literally been on my mind for months and I haven't formulated any real thoughts. This post is yet another ramble with no real aim. But I guess that's what blogs are for.
Also lol, Julie Powell just started a blog and left it there and didn't do anything to promote it (apart from telling her friends I guess) and suddenly it has a ton of readers?? How does that even happen, like how did they even find the website. There are so many websites wtf. Why can't this happen to this blog.
jeudi 13 décembre 2018
reading update
I spend way more time thinking and talking about reading than I do actually reading! Lol.
I'm going to be spending next week at Uni Bastions working on my André Breton essay due on week 0 of Hilary. I was looking for audiobooks for Breton's Nadja (I now realise you can't really do an audiobook of it) when I found a YouTuber called Antastesia who made a video about it in French. It felt so good to listen to people speak in French at length again and she was also a really interesting person so I've been watching her videos which are generally about literature and just her life training as a teacher and all that. It's so fascinating... this girl reads so much. It's very inspiring. So apparently there's this whole niche part of YouTube called BookTube where people just... review books? Wow.
Which leads me to the fact that I have 2 weeks to read 3 books if I want to complete my Goodreads reading challenge of reading 25 books a year. I don't know if I can make it because I'm absolutely crawling through Herzog right now (it's so boring to me... it's such a classic 'man and his inner angst' novel so far. Like I just do not care that his wife left him for his best friend - I have no sympathy for this man who apparently cheated on his wife too and is a bad father so like. Boohoo.) I'm also reading Griselda Pollock's absolutely fascinating new book on Charlotte Salomon (I bought it after I went to her guest seminar this term on the same topic) but it's literally like 500 pages and 3kg and I can't figure out how to hold it comfortably so I'm just avoiding having to pick it up. Oh my god why is it so heavy.
Tomorrow I'm going to town and going to do some shopping for Christmas. I think I'm going to treat myself to Elif Batuman's first book, The Possessed, because I love her and want her to be my mentor. I'm still thinking about The Idiot... It's had such an impact on me!
But in the meantime I need to use every cell in my body for the strength of restraining myself from becoming a BookTuber too. Or an 'ideas' YouTuber like Contrapoints and Philosophy Tube or the cultural critics I've been watching like Lindsay Ellis. Considering that a) I barely even read anymore / know nothing and b) Have no interesting or original opinions, it would be of no benefit to anyone. But the urge is so strong... I have such a weird compulsive need to share myself to an anonymous audience (like this blog) - I log everything I read onto Goodreads and all the movies I watch onto Letterboxd. It's not even so people will read it necessarily, but more for myself. It's fun to go back and see how I live through the media I consume. And yet the fun is in the fact that it's online - if I was just keeping a Word doc on my computer of the books I read it would be so boring. But I also don't, like, super crave attention. I only have about 3 friends on each website and we never interact on there. I wonder why I'm like this. Such an utterly modern phenomenon.
I'm going to be spending next week at Uni Bastions working on my André Breton essay due on week 0 of Hilary. I was looking for audiobooks for Breton's Nadja (I now realise you can't really do an audiobook of it) when I found a YouTuber called Antastesia who made a video about it in French. It felt so good to listen to people speak in French at length again and she was also a really interesting person so I've been watching her videos which are generally about literature and just her life training as a teacher and all that. It's so fascinating... this girl reads so much. It's very inspiring. So apparently there's this whole niche part of YouTube called BookTube where people just... review books? Wow.
Which leads me to the fact that I have 2 weeks to read 3 books if I want to complete my Goodreads reading challenge of reading 25 books a year. I don't know if I can make it because I'm absolutely crawling through Herzog right now (it's so boring to me... it's such a classic 'man and his inner angst' novel so far. Like I just do not care that his wife left him for his best friend - I have no sympathy for this man who apparently cheated on his wife too and is a bad father so like. Boohoo.) I'm also reading Griselda Pollock's absolutely fascinating new book on Charlotte Salomon (I bought it after I went to her guest seminar this term on the same topic) but it's literally like 500 pages and 3kg and I can't figure out how to hold it comfortably so I'm just avoiding having to pick it up. Oh my god why is it so heavy.
Tomorrow I'm going to town and going to do some shopping for Christmas. I think I'm going to treat myself to Elif Batuman's first book, The Possessed, because I love her and want her to be my mentor. I'm still thinking about The Idiot... It's had such an impact on me!
But in the meantime I need to use every cell in my body for the strength of restraining myself from becoming a BookTuber too. Or an 'ideas' YouTuber like Contrapoints and Philosophy Tube or the cultural critics I've been watching like Lindsay Ellis. Considering that a) I barely even read anymore / know nothing and b) Have no interesting or original opinions, it would be of no benefit to anyone. But the urge is so strong... I have such a weird compulsive need to share myself to an anonymous audience (like this blog) - I log everything I read onto Goodreads and all the movies I watch onto Letterboxd. It's not even so people will read it necessarily, but more for myself. It's fun to go back and see how I live through the media I consume. And yet the fun is in the fact that it's online - if I was just keeping a Word doc on my computer of the books I read it would be so boring. But I also don't, like, super crave attention. I only have about 3 friends on each website and we never interact on there. I wonder why I'm like this. Such an utterly modern phenomenon.
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