the habit of being

When I was in sixth grade, we had a school project where we had to ask our parents questions and then present the answers to the class. One of the questions was what is your favorite book. Most of the other girls’ mothers said the Bible. My mother said Light in August. I remember thinking it was such a pretty title.

I took a class on Southern literature once, just a couple-weeks-long section at the GA Governor’s Honors Program. We read some short stories, and watched a movie, where someone told us how Faulkner was a drunk asshole who lied nonstop and was mean to his wife.

Message: It doesn’t make one bit of a difference how fucked up and cruel you are when can write one (or two or three or four..) of the most amazing pieces of American literature ever DRUNK OFF YOUR ASS.

I started to read The Sound and the Fury two or three times as I was growing up. I stopped before I got out of the first chapter, and who could blame me?

I finally read the whole thing last weekend. I’m halfway through Light in August now.

I read this stuff like it’s what I’m made of. It’s like I’ve found my very flavor of misery in words. And maybe I couldn’t tell you why. Maybe I don’t even know. I didn’t think racism and misogyny and bad grammar had so much to do wih me. And maybe they don’t. There’s something though. I’ve never read anything that felt so real.

I don’t like literary criticism. I don’t ever know what to say. I do know that I feel like I’m on the verge of having a nervous breakdown because of a book.

I’ve read a lot of books, and I’ve never had any of them get into me quite like this.. get into my dreams. It’s scary.