So let’s have some book confessions.
- I have never read anything by Jane Austen. The closest is that I did read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and I’ve watched Bride and Prejudice (and I guess I’ve seen Clueless and read Bridget Jones), but to actually read books about people whose sole purpose is getting married and/or being pithily polite to one another leaves me cold.
- I took a year of Russian literature in university, which means I’ve read some Russian books. Okay, I’ve read a lot of Russian books (in translation as my knowledge of Russian involves me being able to introduce myself, identify myself as Canadian and a mathematician, tell people how much I love the Russian language, count to ten, then say I don’t understand). But what I haven’t read, not one word of, is Chekhov. Now my bookshelves are dotted with plays by Chekhov and short story collections by Chekhov and short story collections with a variety of authors including Chekhov. In fact, I often look at my bookshelves and think “I should really gather all the books that have some piece of Chekhov in them and get rid of any duplicates” but I don’t because then maybe I would read something by Chekhov and feel stupid that I’ve waited so long to do so.
- Every few months, Geoff and I have this conversation:
Geoff: You remember [insert scene from The Trial or The Castle or The Metamorphosis or something by Kafka]?
Me: I have never read Kafka.
Geoff: What? You’ve never read Kafka?
Me: Nope.
Geoff: How can you have not read Kafka? Here, I will find you some books by Kafka for you to read.
Usually he doesn’t actually bother so I still haven’t read Kafka. - I am a female Canadian who wants to write literary fiction. This does not mean that I have read The Handmaids Tale. All is not lost. I own it, which is the first step to reading it.
There are some other grievous book gaps in my knowledge, but on this cloudy Monday, these are the only ones I am willing to own up to.