Does this girl even exist?

Oh wow. Haven't posted in years, apparently.
Stress, it is present. I have applications due, scholarships to apply for, current schoolwork, quizzes to study for- I'm also studying for the SAT, since I'm applying to some US schools. Yeah, I'm insane. I also don't sleep much anymore. But, looking on the bright side- I'm like the guy in Fight Club! Insomnia, for the cool or the cool at heart. Stop me if you see me wandering by, muttering about Tyler Durden.

Anyway, it's a random post, so bypass this one if you're looking for substance. I was just sitting on my couch today, peering around my book instead of at the workings of the nervous system, and a thought popped into my head.

Isn't a bookshelf like a delightful little personal store that costs nothing but brings you endless happiness?

Most readers buy a lot of books- that's logical. They collect, stacked together snugly, but sometimes get left unopened for awhile. So they stew, improving like a fine wine. And sometimes, when the mood strikes you- when you don't have a certain book in mind for reading next- you can just stand in front of the bookshelf. Fingertips trailing over the spines, reading 2 pages of 20 different books, unable to decide.

I'm not very good at decision making. My entire life I've had trouble with it, with books in particular. I will start 6 different books, unable to decide which looks more interesting. My childhood was categorized by half-opened books, layed out across the room, picking up whichever was near.

Anway, it's just such a fun experience. I sometimes even imagine myself recommending books to people in my mind, thinking who would enjoy a certain title, what I would say to sell the book. It's possible that I'm just insane, though.

And confession- I always look at people's bookshelves. I think they can tell a lot about who the person is, and its just a fascinating little look into their personality. Does anyone else do this?

Whether it be Donut, Danish, or Dry Cappucino

Come enjoy your Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Oooooh, a blog post inspired by an Audrey Hepburn movie marathon, a.k.a. the queen of all movie marathons. Gather your chairs near me and put on your best little black dress. You cannot go lightly into the world of Golightly.

I will come right out and say it. I effing love Audrey Hepburn with the power of a thousand gleaming pearls. She was classy, she was the epitome of style, she was cultured, she was a wonderful person who donated her time to UNICEF.

She's my favorite, y'all. Hands down.

One of the top three contenders (it's a three way tie between it, Funny Face, and Roman Holiday. I can't choose. Please don't make me. They're all so good) is Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Which comes from a book. See- all good things come from books! I also have an Audrey Hepburn biography- coincidentally, also a book. BOOKS BRING YOU JOY, PEOPLE. LOVE THE BOOKS.

Ahem. Back to our regularly scheduled post.

The book and the movie don't really...mesh. I know Holly Golightly is a prostitute. In the movie though...it's Audrey Hepburn. You can't really look at her and think 'ew, dirty!'. You think 'ohmygod I want to be her'.

Or, well, I do. Anyway! In the original book, she's a buxom blonde bombshell. Capote originally wanted Marilyn Monroe to play her in the film. The two characters are nothing alike, but they both have their own charm.

Admittedly, I don't know as much about the book. I read it once, I didn't hate it, but I wasn't dazzled. I've seen the movie more times than I can count. It's not really a fair race.

I don't think I'll ever have a cat named Cat, mostly because I'm not a huge feline lover. I did, however, name my car....

Car.

And whenever I sit in it to drive somewhere, thinking 'Good morning/afternoon/evening, Car'..

I feel a little bit like Holly Golightly. And that can never be a bad thing.

No matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself

-Breakfast at Tiffany's

Ode to the Discount Books

(or, Lit Slut has a cold and isn't capable of coming up with anything good. Sleep deprivation equals humor? What? Who? )

Hi, My name is Lit Slut.

(Hiiiiiii, lit slut.)
I am addicted to discounted books


What is it with discounted books? Regular price, 20-25 (on average) books, we can run away from. I can go 'I only have 40 bucks, so I can only buy two- I'll think another day on which two of the two hundred they'll be this time'.
But when there's that little sticker shouting '3.99! Buy me! You won't get this chance again!'
Well, I'm not one to disobey a sticker. They hold a certain kind of authority.

And if they have an ADDITIONAL sticker, on top of the original sale one- proclaiming 'seriously, Lit Slut. Nobody wanted me. I'm so cheap, I feel so lonely. Please take me home and shelve me, allowing me to warm myself between your friendly books. Please!'

I can't help it. I am a weird person, yes, but I feel responsible! I feel compelled! I should take it home! I must! Why not? Who is it hurting? (wow, excessive punctuation. Sorry e.e. cummings, it's not in the poetic way, it's simply passion, or insanity. Take your pick. Moving on..)

Plus, the fact that I work in a coffee shop attached to a huge book retailer does not help. It does not help at all. All you book store employees? Stop me! I have an addiction! You are enablers, you lot!

Kidding. You're all lovely. I'm a huge fan of the vests.

I'm not going to lie and say I don't find cool things. I found a wicked copy of The Canterbury Tales, a classic I've been meaning to buy for a long time, not in paperback but in oversized hardcover. Three columns per page, illustrations at the beginning of every tale, it's glorious. I adore it.

A small book of Chesterton essays, which I blame a certain english teacher on exposing me to.

The Iliad, to snuggle nicely next to the Odyssey, a greek duet made in the heavens.

Well, I look at it this way- if I hadn't bought them, I wouldn't have enough reading material to get me through this gross common cold. (The cold is another pet peeve of mine- it's common! It's boring! Saying 'I have a cold' is way less interesting than whimpering 'I have a rare disease that turns me a vibrant magenta.' Moving on! Oh, the post is finished. Good day, then!)

School is eating my brain.

You don't even know.

There are individuals who go through high school without worries, without cares, thinking 'oh, it'll be fine, I'll find a decent job somehow. I'll just go to the local community college'.

And then there are others who are dying, and I mean desperately dying, to get out of high school. To get out of suburbia. To find people who LIKE reading books too, who LIKE having intelligent conversations about more than 'man, I was so wasted this weekend. Were you wasted? He was so wasted. I was so wasted man!'

...seriously?

It may be different in private schools, highly competitive academic schools, etc, where everyone wants to succeed. Somehow though, I feel like there are slackers in all worlds, circles, and institutions.

Anyway, though. Is it a dorky thing to aim high? To want to go somewhere great, to see something outside of the little town where you grow up? I don't think so. And I feel so strongly about it (I'm ready to get out of here. I want to meet people who read a book a day too! It's exciting!) that it's sort of excruciating to finish this final year of high school.
Because I know that I have to do REALLY well in order to catch the eye of the places that I want to go. Brown doesn't want a freshman who just got an 'average' grade in biology. Berkeley's english program doesn't welcome someone who got a 70 in english. It just makes sense that they want the best, and to go to the best, you have to BE the best. Therefore....insert random panicked noises here.


And here.



And...I'm going to go study. Indeed.

A Parallel Life

Confessions of an Obsessive Compulsive

Okay, I haven’t really written about anything too heavy or meaningful. In my free time, I love to write. I write all kinds of things, of all kinds of genres, but when it comes to short little blog posts, I usually tend to err towards the lighter side of things. This is one topic, though, that I really did want to write about for some time, but I’ve just been sort of…shy? Ashamed? There isn’t really a fitting adjective. I just feel it’s sort of under-represented. Here’s the thing. They have the dramatic tv shows and movies about the character who is using drugs, who spirals into a one month eating disorder (which is a story for another time), the woman who begins to feel so sad she can’t get out of bed and develops serious depression, the teenage bipolar, etc etc etc etc. Etc!
But no one ever talks about OCD. Not really. Why is that?

It breaks her heart sometimes. On a rare occasion, at school or in a store, anywhere, she see someone doing something that she recognizes. And she just wants to reach out and go ‘I know how you’re feeling, trust me, I know how much this sucks.’
But like most people, it’s easier to just turn away and pretend you didn’t see. You don’t acknowledge it. Why? Why are we so embarrassed to admit things about ourselves to others? To be judged?

It is not just the girl who washes her hands five times in a row. It’s not that simple. Any tv specials she’s seen on the topic, or articles she’s read, have been disappointing to say the least.
Everyone has their quirks. It’s not that easily defined. It's what happens when a quirk turns into an obsession, turns into something that plays a major role in your life.
She doesn’t really notice it, because it’s so normal to her. If she stops to reflect, though, she realizes how weird it seems. How much of her time these stupid, repetitive things are taking.

She is the girl who lines up her notebook, pen, and assignment, all at perfect 90 degree angles. Everything parallel. Because everything must be parallel

She is the girl who organizes her books by genre. No, alphabetically by author. No!- alphabetically by title. No, she’s got it- by size! The organizing doesn’t stop, because it isn’t logical. There is no reason that one method is better than the other, so she just keeps doing it.

She is the girl who feels calm when it is clean. When things are messy, she feels chaotic.

She carries hand sanitizer in her purse.

She has an impeccable locker- books lined up perfectly, jacket on the hook, no extra papers, nothing loose, nothing extra. No mess.

She is the girl who only likes even numbers. Odd numbers are wrong. She doesn’t know why, but they are. She cannot stop reading on a page that is an odd number, as if the book would swallow her whole if she does.

She is the discreet toucher. She hides it because she knows it doesn’t make sense, that they’ll think it’s weird. She taps her desk with her left index finger- she must tap it with her right index finger. Or they won’t be even. And then she must tap it twice more- and twice on the other side.
It doesn’t end.
It is like algebra- what you do to one side, you must do to the other. Or the equation remains unsolved. Things remain unfinished.

She is silent not because she has nothing to say. She is silent because she is counting in her head. Spelling words. She does not know why.

She is the first one finished the test, but the last to hand it in, because she's checking it over. Again and again. Just in case.

She is in a constant organizational flurry. Things must be constantly fixed- the towels folded perfectly. The dvds and cds tucked in, not hanging over the edge of the shelf. The items lined up according to size. The list is endless. Her mother loves that her room is so clean lately, not realizing that with this cleanliness comes a slow pain. A hand shaking, its owner trying to restrain itself from fixing, straightening, tidying.

You just straightened that. It's fine.

You don't have to do it again.

Nothing bad will happen

She straightens it again. She doesn't have a choice.

She must do these things or something bad will happen. There are never specifics- she never has a concrete event that will occur. She just knows it will be bad, so precautions must be taken.

She is your best friend. She is that quiet kid in your chem class. She is your friendly neighbourhood blogger. You don't know who she is, because she probably won't ever tell you.

She is trapped in her parallel life.

And she doesn’t mind- not really. She's used to it. She just hopes that somewhere out there, by some freak occurance, someone might read this. And they might feel just a little less bad about themselves. A little less weird.

If you like pina coladas…

And reading books in the sun!

Generally, in the summer, the parents and I go to Europe (copious amounts of family there), but this year we went in May instead. Therefore, at the end of August, as a pre-school relaxation-vacation, we're going to Mexico. Just one of those all-inclusive resorts, so it's not quite as culturally thrilling as poking around in foreign cities and discovering hidden gems...but it's not bad.

One of the biggest thrills about it? I can get a TON of reading time in.

I know. So nerdy. I won't even confess how fun it was to go through my bookshelves and pick out which books to take.

And yes, I'm taking eight. Yes, I will have to somehow smuggle them, because in my mother's opinion, two will suffice. Which is obviously insane. Subtracting some time for splashing in the ocean, some chatting with people, what am I going to do besides lay in the sun and read? Play beach volleyball? Hah. The volleyball and I, we are not really on good terms.

Anyway, if anyone’s in the area- the girl with the big sunglasses, bottle of SPF 45 on the chair beside her, and collection of eight books in a tote bag next to her beach chair? That’s me! Hi!

What makes a Classic?

Wow, been awhile since the last post. Oh, those lazy summer days.

Anyway, something I was thinking about today..

Many times, classics are on sale for cheaper, simply because they're older and more 'common'. For example, today on my break I picked up 3 books for 10 dollars in some new deal they had. They're all books I've been curious about for awhile, so I snatched them up gladly, but it still makes me wonder:

What qualifies a classic? Maybe in 100 years, there will be some contemporary books that virtually everyone has read, and that are reprinted by every company under the sun. For now though- can anything be lifted to the level of Shakespeare, Austen, Dostoevsky, Dickens, etc? Who decided that these books should be deemed 'must reads', put on numerous booklists and read by millions worldwide?
Just curious, is all.

Random fact: has anyone heard of the website 'lists of bests'? Its one of my book-obsession things...in the 'books' section, it gives you thousands of lists, and you can check off the books you've read and complete the lists. It sounds silly, and perhaps I'm a bit biased- (I'm a huge organization freak (read: OCD), and I really, really love lists) but it's kind of neat ...I only do the definitive lists, or award lists (because frankly I don't care what books Joe McSchmo from Kansas thinks are worth reading), and yes, there are some books that I don't care for and won't bother reading, but there are also books that I've been introduced to which I really enjoyed.


So...did this post have a point? Not really...read classics! Read contemporary! Read everything! Reading is cool! Huzzah!

Yum.

Coming soon to a blog near you. Hopefully.

Guten Tag! Learn German with Hans and Helga

So, in the spirit of random babbling posts...
I'm learning German! For now, at least. After awhile I'll probably give up, and just be equipped with tourist german (Hi! Good morning! What is your name? Where is the bathroom? Please, no more bratwurst! Have you lost your lederhosen?)
I've kind of always wanted to learn, and during my break at work, I was browsing Chapters and ended up in the language section. I figure, balancing 4 languages already, why not add a fifth?
Yeah, I'm a dork.

So anyway, I got this computer program, because I hate the plain audio courses, and books never show you how to pronounce things very well. And I must say- I love this thing. I'm only on the first disc of 5...but...it is thoroughly awesome. There are 2 people who do the pronunciation (I've named them Hans and Helga, cuz...why not) and it's very amusing. They just sort of sit in the corners of your screen, like that little paperclip man who used to be in Microsoft Word. There's little quiz sections/games, and when you get an answer right...they say 'JA!' and nod very very enthusiastically. I'm not going to lie, I've cracked up quite a few times. It's all in the enthusiasm. Hans and Helga sure know how to enunciate, is all I'm saying.

Anyone else compelled to learn as many languages as humanly possible, just for kicks? No? Just me? Alright then!

...and yes, so far I only know basic greetings and a few pleasantries. And food- though that doesn't really count, since I knew most of the food words just from deciphering menus on visits to Germany. But- we'll say it does!
Oh, and colors! I know colors.
So basically, I am a German toddler.

Well...auf wiedersehen! Post is over, ja.

A Man’s Best Friend is a Crack Addict with Gaping Intestines

Okay. Here’s the thing. I have struggled long and hard about my opinion of Chuck Palahniuk, and have read some opinions and analysis on other blogs. And his time has come. Sorry, Chuck.
First and foremost- I love Fight Club more than life itself. I have read it over and over, and YES I LOVE THE MOVIE, but the book is better and I did read it first. The idea is genius, the writing is genius- it makes sense that Tyler Durden would speak in staccato, gripping, gut-wrenching sentences. He’s not the type to mess around with lyrical prose and page long paragraphs.
Fight Club- point one for Palahniuk.
Since I loved Fight Club so much, I figured- someone who writes that piece of awesomeness can’t be THAT bad.

Um. Spoke too soon.
Because here’s the thing- Fight Club needed the violence and gore. It was an integral part of the story line, and the novel wouldn’t be as good without it. It was necessary.
In his other books, he often uses it when it’s not necessary. At all.
I’ve read Invisible Monsters, Lullaby, Choke, and Survivor. They’re all fairly quick, easy reads. Here’s the thing though.
Some of them just took it too far. Yes, there were some choice phrases or ideas in all of them that I said ‘hey, that’s sort of neat’. But for the most part, I had an experience similar to when I read Burroughs’ Naked Lunch. I would just stare at the page, thinking ‘Disgusting!’
It was ludicrous, at points. You just think- ‘these things don’t really HAPPEN’.
In the mind of the nameless insomniac writer, it made sense. He planned these things while he was in a half-sleep state, and none of them were too crazy. Project Mayhem did some grand gestures, but it wasn’t unimaginable.
Crazy transvestite drag queens, walking around with faceless girls, who were actually related but NOT REALLY BUT THEY DIDN’T KNOW BUT SOME OF THEM ACTUALLY DID, AND THEN THERE WAS THE CREEDISH DEATH CULT- BUT HE ESCAPED! AND HE’S A CELEBRITY! BUT HE ACTUALLY WANTED TO KILL HIMSELF BUT HE DIDN’T! AND THE SEX ADDICT WAS WORKING INA PILGRIM VILLAGE WHERE EVERYONE ELSE WAS AN ADDICT! AND THIS OTHER GUY WAS KILLING PEOPLE WITH THE SACRED LULLABY LEFT AND RIGHT! AND NO ONE KNEW! AND-
Come on, man! Get a hold of yourself! Put down the crack pipe! You have gone too far!
I admit this- I love crazy writing. That half-dream state, where the sentences don’t always completely coordinate, but they’re still awesome- I love that. The impact, the feeling, the emotion- love it. Perhaps I'm just crazy altogether. I like writing that strays from the ordinary.
But it’s just too much, Mr. Palahniuk. Too much.
There’s shock value, and then there’s just 260 pages of disgustingness.

I was browsing in Chapters the other day, and I stumbled across two of Palahniuk's new books, Rant and Snuff. I haven't really gone looking for him for awhile, so I'm not sure when these were released, but I gave it a flip-through.
Rant just hurt my head. I'm sure if I sat down and gave it a chance it may be different, but I just wasn't feeling it. The little 'interview' idea wasn't really my cup of tea.
And Snuff? The King of Gross-out Lit is back! From what I flipped through, it's about 300 pages of erections, pus, and porn. Why? WHY?
I realize it's not completely fair to judge without reading, but...I've read 4 of your books besides Fight Club, sir. I gave you a fair chance.

But please. If I wanted to read about pus and diseased anatomy, I would open a medical textbook. Not a fiction novel.

Okay, rant over!

Mrs. Dean Moriarty presents...

On the Road!

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!"

In a streak of wild rebellion (take note though, I wasn’t the most rebellious 12 year old), I used On The Road as my 7th grade book report. When I went to ask the teacher if it was okay (I know, asking permission- I was wild!) she says:
“Oh, I’m sure it’s fine. I’ve never read it, though.”
BLASPHEMY, I SAY!
I’m sure that I am a bit biased, since it’s one of my favorite books ever, but still! Isn’t it somewhat of a contemporary classic? I read it for the first time when I was in 7th grade, and have read it over a few times since then. My copy of On the Road is pleasantly worn out at the edges, the cover flexible and scratched up from being shoved into backpacks and suitcases.

Maybe it’s just a youth thing, but there’s something so amazing about it all. I want to be in those jazz clubs, I want to be roaming the streets, sleeping in Mexican jungles, talking to weird, insane, unique people- it just sounds so exciting. And I think we all have a little Dean Moriarty inside of us, and reading about his insane antics is one of the things that makes it worth reading for me.
I'm not exactly a 'glass half full' person- I'd dare to say that *gasp* perhaps I'm a bit cynical. But the way Kerouac describes some scenes makes me think that the world is still beautiful, somewhere, in the quiet hours in the morning, travelling across the country with a friend

One of the best of the Beats, is all I’m saying. Except Howl. One of my favorite pieces of poetry in the entire world is Howl. Perhaps I’ll post about that in the near future.

Anyway, if anyone really dislikes it, I’d be interested to hear why. I’ve found that it’s one of those books that people either really love or really hate, so it’s always interesting to hear the opinions on both strong ends of the spectrum.

Although, beware, if you diss it TOO much, I’ll have to kick your ass.

…well, mentally. But, you know, it’ll still hurt.

"So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it... and tonight the stars'll be out, and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear?"

Don't be a length-ist!

Why the fear, people? I simply do not understand.
Admittedly, I'm biased. I am a big fat geeky lover of big books. More space for character development, more space for plot development, etc. Sure, sometimes I feel like reading a quick 100-page novella or play, but when someone says ‘hey, there’s this great book I read recently…it’s kind of long, though’ my response is always ‘ahahahaha! Not long enough, my friend!’
For some reason, when I offer this same literary olive branch to people I know, they shrink back as if I had said “hey, I ate the most delicious infant the other day- would you like to go baby-hunting and catch one to share for an afternoon snack?”
It’s not that crazy, I swear. It’s just a few extra words. It really won’t take you THAT much longer.
“It’s okay!” I assure them, “It was just a suggestion.”
“But…but…longer than 200 pages…ack…brain…ack...melting…’
I don’t understand. Some people take to books like cavemen took to hunting and have this 'conquest' attitude. Instead of wanting to savor a long book that maybe has some character or message or idea that changes your life, they simply want to read as many as they can, regardless of content.
Which is honestly better? To say you've read ten books, but none of them had a lasting impact on you- or to spend a bit more time reading that one book that may just have a deeper impact on you.
Now, I'm in no way saying that shorter books are inferior. I'm just saying that sometimes, a book is passed over simply because of its length, and that's sad. So many great books are sitting on shelves out there, with people unwilling to read them because it'll 'take too long'.

Don't be a length-ist! Try to read a longer book, it'll be good, I promise!

anyone live in a pretty how town

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than to teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.

Oh, I love this crazy man. LOVE. If he was still alive, I would camp out in front of his house and yell ‘Mr. Cummings! What kind of punctuation are you using on your latest piece?” and screech like a fan girl.

And no, it is not because I am a weird lover of all things grammar and punctuation. It’s just unique and interesting, plain and simple.
Many feel poetry is simply too girly, too lyrical, too ‘petals on dew, I love you forevermore nevermore, roses are blue’
Not the case, I say. Not the case at all. Cummings took poetry to a new level, in my humble opinion. He made true art with words by playing with the positioning and punctuation.
Your eyes are forced to dance around the page from phrase to phrase, and there’s something just purely…fun about it. I can read the same poem twenty times and discover some little detail each time to make me love it even more. It's a literary treasure chest! Hurrah!

Also, imagine getting this from your son:
FATHER DEAR. BE, YOUR FATHER-GOOD AND GOOD,HE IS GOOD NOW, IT IS NOT GOOD TO SEE IT RAIN,FATHER DEAR IS, IT, DEAR, NO FATHER DEAR,LOVE, YOU DEAR,ESTLIN.
He wrote that when he was 6! Can we say prodigy? When I have kids, if they write me something like that, I'm hunting them down a book deal right away. All I'm saying it, man was creative. Imagination up to the treetops.

So, if you hate poetry- I beg you to reconsider. Jump in to something unusual like cummings, and maybe you'll appreciate the whole genre a bit more.

Or maybe you'll hate it, but that's okay- my love for e.e.cummings can combat a thousand haters.

"The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful. "
If anyone could turn me into an optimist, it is this man. Maximus love, Mr. Cummings.

Memoirs of someone supposedly important?

Memoirs, how I loathe thee? Let me count the ways.

First of all, this is absolutely not saying that I hate all memoirs. There are some that are very well written which I enjoyed reading immensely.
However, often a memoir is simply a 300-page journal, leaving me thinking '...why did I need to read this? Do I really care?'

You have experienced illness. You have experienced family issues. You have experienced grief, pain, happiness, enlightenment, men, women, tomatoes, I get that.
But the question to be posed is, what makes your experiences worth a book while every single person has unique experiences, and they certainly don't write a book about them.

Some people have led truly amazing lives, or on the opposite side of the spectrum, truly heartbreaking ones. Do I need to receive a magnifying probe into your moments of deepest sadness and suffering? It's uncomfortable to read sometimes. It leaves me slightly uneasy, like I've been secretly spying into someone's life without permission.

Memoirs just feel intrusive to me. Like I have no right to be jumping into someone's head and splashing around in their sorrows.

That said, there are a select few that I have read a few times. Not because they are great pieces of literature, but simply because they deal with issues that are familiar to me, and somehow it makes me feel better to know someone else has been through it.

How's that for a downer post?

Spasiba!

Okay, who loves Russians? The lit slut does!
I'm not even going to lie. I love those little fur coat wearing, pipe smoking, father-killing citizens.

Raskolnikov? I loved that crazy bastard. If I ever planned a murder, that's how I'd do it. NOT THAT I'M PLANNING A MURDER! Don't turn in my blog, I swear, I'm innocent! To get inside his psyche was awesome, is all I'm saying.

Nabokov? Anyone who could write something as weird as Lolita is a-okay in my books. Not that I'm promoting child kidnapping and such. It was just really well written.

Oh god, we're getting off to a horrible start.

And how can you forget good old Gogol. Dead Souls? Loved the concept.

Sure, some say 'But I can't remember who's who? Why do their names all end in 'ski' and 'kov'? BECAUSE THEY'RE AWESOME, that's why.


Ahem.


Read some Russians!
Not in Russian, of course, unless you actually speak it, in which case you are officially awesome.

That's all.