Writing

in being, I imagined, the only person in history to have been granted a doctorate in literature without having read Moby Dick. I didn't really need to read it. We were saturated in the white whale lore in grad school. I'd seen the movie (dull), and there was always Cliff Notes. I finally read it, almost, in a book club which had committed to the 100 Greatest Novels. It didn't work for me. Still doesn't. Nor does Lord Jim, or a number of other "Greats." I'm still embarrassed. But--something your piece touched on--we do deserve to grant ourselves some personal discrimination when it comes to art, with or without training. And there's the matter of time. Do I spend it revisiting the art that initially failed to touch me in the hope that my more enlightened self will, finally, "get" it, or do I spend it on what I know is likely to move me or give me pleasure? The answer, I guess, is both. That balance thing. Don't you hate it?