I don’t read
March 25, 2013
I don’t read. Fiction. Haven’t for decades. When I was in my teens I read everything I could find. In my 20s and 30s, I read a lot of genre fiction, science fiction and detective novels. When I was at college I read an assortment of books. Lot of South American writers who I loved, and some American Literature which I did not.
Joyce Carol Oates, a small bird of a woman, taught at our school. I regret not having taken a course with her. Friends told me she was interesting. Rumors about her at the school were not flattering. One was that she was paranoid. Never sat near the window in her office. (Snipers) Once a pizza was sent to her as a gift from one of her students. She sent it down to the science labs to be tested for poison.
I read Them. It was very well received by critics and readers. I hated it. My impression: she doesn’t have the faintest clue. She lived the 60s in her office.
I’m reading the NY Times Book Review. An introduction of some younger writers. I realized that my time has passed. Actually my time never existed. Outside of Kurt Vonnegut, there is not an American author since Hemingway I’d want to be associated with.