I am a bibliophile. My love for literature is all-consuming and more than a little bit unhealthy. If I was Heathcliff, I’d forget Cathy the moment I hit up the library.
Books are a means of vicarious living. Wait, scratch that. To read is to actually forfeit reality, and by extension I suppose, life, in favour of something altogether better. When I read I am a member of the walking dead. I may be moving, but I will not see, hear or talk to you. I will clear my schedule and will begrudgingly read until dawn. With each passing hour, I will promise myself just one more chapter. And will always close the book the following morning having finally devoured that last page.
As an English Literature student, I can happily say that my reading habits are, at least temporarily, acceptable.
And when I’m not reading, you ask. Your life, your study, it must consist of more? Well, usually, I’m writing essays about reading, attending lectures and seminars discussing the reading, reading additional texts which explain the original reading, and then inevitably, researching the additional reading because, really, when does Barthes or Empson ever make sense the first time around? And the rest of my time, you persist. Well, as succinctly as possible: excessive sleep, procrastination, and Netflix. My favourite pastime is watching The Vampire Diaries and drinking every time a shirt is removed.
But this is beside the point. What I’m trying to say is that I earn the title of my blog. I may struggle with Proust, and I may be thoroughly sick of realism at this point in the year, but I am at heart a bibliophile. And, since you’re reading this, you probably are too.