I figured it was about time I was ushered into the "Me" Generation, so here I am (somewhat against my will, as I'd always suspected), writing about what I think.
I can't remember the last time I kept a journal. I can't remember what my last paper was about. Sometimes I consider myself a fraud. I tell myself, ineffectively, Quit while you're ahead. You're a fraud. And very soon everyone will realize you know much less than you think you do.
Nowhere was that made more clear to me than in my attempt at reading Old Books and New Histories. Now I don't consider myself a slow reader. In fact, I consider myself a very competent one. I do not admit to having an extremely large and broad vocabulary, but I feel mine is sufficiently placed above the average for a human being (although I do not, unfortunately, possess the necessary evidence to confirm this; suffice it to say, I have a hunch). And I have not only felt, but on more than one occasion, it has been mentioned to me that I have somewhat of an acute sense of disseminating complex ideas into more easily digestible and readily available language; a "tutoring" instinct if you will, targeting those who seem to struggle with said concepts.
Yet I, quintessentially, forever remain a lay person. I am resigned to this fact. I will always be a professional at nothing, an amateur at everything; a jack of all trades, but king of none. How did I come to this depressing conclusion?
I could not concentrate on this book.
I refuse to stoop to the level of the sophomoric and call it "boring," for I am intelligent and insightful enough to recognize that Howsam's self-proclaimed "little book" contains more than its fair share of academic merit (beyond all of the fancy and completely esoteric citations which mean little more to me than a game of bibliographical Mad-Libs), but I. Could. Not. Follow. Along.
Could I be stupid? Lazy? Disrespectful of the hard work and concentration of others? Have I lost the magic?
Or could it just be that I don't give a shit that Howsam wants to validate her obscure niche in the academic cave?
And it just cannot be that this is entirely my fault, because I will direct you to the second paragraph of page 34, the moment that any interest I had in the further reading of this book all but dissolved. Howsam found it relevant to add a juvenile argument by Adams and Barker over semantics that only serves to perpetuate the accepted view of bibliography as a "'handmaiden' to another discipline." An academic pissing contest I am not interested in, nor in the inferiority complexes of its insecure constituents.
Don't get me wrong. I love reading. And I tried reading this. But I had to persevere. And at least after a 5k run, you walk away with a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction.
After this reading, I think I was startled awake this morning from some sort of Oedipal nightmare about being trapped in an insane asylum and yearning for the comforting embrace of my mommy... but that could be totally unrelated...
And it's true I've been remembering my dreams more vividly since I quit smoking...
-M.C.