Wednesday, January 26


I am currently sitting in my favorite study spot on campus.
There's a wide window where I can see the mountains right in front of me which only made this experience all the more... well, just read on.
This spot was a little more inhabited than usual, but I sat down anyway in the only available seat and resumed my reading of Frankenstein.

I am about to make what I have recently learned is called tangent:

I hated this book in high school. My tenth grade English teacher made me read it and he (along with what seems like every other English teacher) completely exhausted me of any appreciation I might have had for the book prior to his class.
The list of detested books also includes The Great Gatsby, My Antonia, and The Chosen, all of which are probably outstanding works.
Well... maybe not My Antonia.
To be honest, I didn't even finish Frankenstein the first time.
Anyways, the book just pops up on my reading list for British Literary History (the history about literature from Britain) and I curse this professor that I haven't even met yet.
Well, the first time I felt like an idiot was on the first day of class
the teacher whom I thought must be terrible to assign the reading of such an abhorrent book turned out to be one of the most passionate and sincere and donut-providing teachers I've ever had.
But hold on, I'm shamed even further.

(Tangent ceased.)
I actually did finish reading Frankenstein the second time.
I didn't really realize what was happening until the kid next to me tapped me with the highlighter I must have let drop from my fingers.
I took it and then looked at him.
"Thanks," I said.
"No problem," he said and continued to look at me strangely for a few more seconds before asking, "are you okay?"
I blinked in confusion, and then felt something wet on my face.
No... I couldn't actually be crying-
Oh, for the love...
I turned my face away quickly and showed him the book.
"Ah," I heard him say in understanding. "'Nuff said."
That was the second time I felt like an idiot. And not necessarily because I was crying in front of someone, which was bad enough, but because it was this story, this once despised, disgusting monster (haha no pun intended) of a book that had made me cry.

"No creature had ever been so miserable as I was; so frightful an event is single in the history of man."

No, that's not how I felt.
It was just a good quote.



  1. Nothing can move one as completely as art in word.

  2. Ruth, you are the only person in the world who liked that book.