(no subject)
The thing I hate about classes with reading (and I'm talking books, not read pages page number-page number tonight . . . so, the recent British drama class in which I read a play before each meeting) is that I have no time to read books I want to read. When I'm not taking classes that have two books per week, I can easily fit in my own books. I can't get through them very quickly, but I can read them in bed or on the bus or in the Green Room. When I'm reading so many books for class, I feel bad about picking up a book that isn't homework. But I'm itching to read a book for myself. They're all over my bedroom, littering the floor, falling out of the bookshelves, lying on my bed. I want to pour over them, consume them, memorize their contents. F. Scott Fitzgerald's short stories are sitting under the window, City of Thieves, which I just bought last week, is next to my knitting, Wake Up, Sir!, which I started at the beginning of term, is next to me in bed. I have so many books that I haven't read and I get a slight ache every time I look at them because I know they are untouchable until December. I have to wait a whole month before I can read something I want to read. I can't even fathom the wait.