More Oberlin artwork.
I first read Salman Rushdie's Haroun and the Sea of Stories the summer before the ninth grade. I remember thinking it was something of a kids book. Cute, clever, quaint, but little substance. I think I picked up the writing about writing bit--that's what the fucking book's about, after all--but I didn't get the importance of it until this last read.
Before I get too deep into that, let me give it a glowing recommendation. This is the perfect book to read in one's free time while at collage. It's a quick read and has a liminal frivolousness about it that keeps the pages turning. At the same time, it also is one of the more eloquent defenses of story-telling I've ever come across. Seriously. Taken out of context, it may seem beyond even the most stringent suspension of disbelief. But only a few pages into it, I found myself so thoroughly immersed in the framework of the novel, I would have followed Rushdie to the ends of rationality without a second thought.
It is a defense of the necessity of becoming a part of a narrative--reading, watching, getting an escape. It is an example of the rewards of it. He does it concisely and hides his craft perfectly. There's none of the self-righteousness of Franzen, no absurd expectations.
In a place like Oberlin, where the our sentences drip of irony and distain, where our ideas are cloaked in sarcasm and self-awareness, Rushdie's book may seem like an unlikely favorite. On the contrary, it can penetrate the thickest shields and become the antidote to the hipster toxicity we bathe in and create.
Read the goddamn thing. It's quick. You can even borrow mine.
As for Doom Patrol, I know I said I'd write about it--and I still might--but don't get your hopes up (not that you were). Things are getting busy. Already.
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