Sunday, March 30, 2008

Book snobs, or, as the New York Times calls, it, "It's not you, it's your books."

Due mainly to law school, I took nearly five years off from avid reading. In fact, 2007 was the first time in nearly a decade that I owned a library card. And even now, my "to-read" shelf on  my to-read shelf has some rather dubious selections like Nikki Sixx's and Slash's autobiography (which, if you have no idea who they are, probably speaks well of you). So, I'm not one to talk or write when someone tells me he's never heard of, I don't know, Proust, for instance. Or Vonnegut. Although, I did have a laugh when many years ago, a friend had the following conversation with a man she was dating:

Friend: I'm reading Slaughterhouse 5.
Guy, in all earnestness: Oh. How were 1 through 4?

So, with that in mind, I got a kick out of this New York Times essay about love and literary taste.

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