“For the sake of the next generation, he’d decided to become a professor.” The guy’s from Wisconsin. Could be Ethan. But Ethan would have required, “He decided to be a professor ‘for the sake of the next generation.'” with added emphasis on exact hubristic phrasing to truly hammer home Ethan’s god-complex dumbshitness.
There’s another quote here that doesn’t really mean anything to me now so I’m not going to include it. And that’s all I wrote down. This should be in my sweet-spot. Revolution, Lahiri, communism. And I don’t think I particularly cared. I wasn’t against anything in this book, but it didn’t grab me either. In fact, I think I had to return it to the library and check it back out again, it took me so long to read.
I don’t know if it’s me who’s failing literature or literature that’s failing me. That’s scary. Am I actually passionate about this thing that I think I love? I remember feeling said love, but it grips me so rarely anymore. Who is at fault here? Me? My ex-girlfriends? Television? Every author ever? I really have no clue. I think I still love this shit, but I haven’t felt it in a while and that makes me sad and scared.