A sea of unfinished books

I am an English major, which in itself should say something about my love for reading. Yet like many of my peers, it's hard for me to find time to actually read anymore, beyond the pages and pages assigned to me on any given day. That said, I'm not left without want. My most recent trip to the BPL last week yielded a couple of pocket-sized bound album reviews written by real-life music fans (Tago Mago by Can; People's Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm by A Tribe Called Quest) and a vintage copy of Nina Simone's autobiography I Put A Spell On You. Last night, my roommate lent me her mass market paperback edition of Yukio Mishima's 1968 novel Forbidden Colors - a read that promises a tale of "anguished homosexuality", "a loveless marriage", and "revenge on the women who have wronged him" (phrases copied from the back cover and the seeds of my own fascination). I have an endless array of books stacked in a precarious heap on my desk hutch; endless more scattered around my room, on my bookshelf at home, in closets and boxes. My Goodreads shelves alone contain more titles than I'll probably ever get the chance to start in my lifetime as it is.

For my American Renaissance class this week (a course practically defined by its rigid allegiance to The Canon), I was tasked with reading the preface through chapter 8 of Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass this week. So far just as heavy as expected, and anchored in my mind by the combination of inner conviction and sheer luck that allowed Frederick to gain literacy, it puts into perspective just how lucky I am to have such an abundance of reading material that I can't even find the time to get through it. And yet, it's all at an arm's reach. It's in my hand for an Amazon subscription and $3.99. It's a T pass and free library card away. So easy, and yet my freedom isn't at stake.

Although in my youth I loved fantasy (a consequence of my own tendency towards escapism), in recent years my reading habits have taken on a more solid sense of reality. Just because I was born into this place of privilege doesn't mean I have to coast along on naivety I could easily maintain comfort in. I have struggled with my own share of hardships in light of what I was born into, and the insights gleaned from courageous tales of real life human beings' feats in light of worse circumstance can help put my own experience into perspective, and reorient me towards a sense of perseverance that is constantly slipping through my (white; anxiously picked-at) fingers. Then again, how nice is it to dream?

I am excited to read the classics, just as I'm excited by niche divergences from what we've discussed is quite arbitrarily heralded as The Best. I have an insatiable hunger. The question hangs over me: what do I do with it all?