Because I never fucking understood East of Eden. These beautiful educated people sit around and smoke and talk about East of Eden and Tropic of Cancer and every other damn thing I don't get and I don't have anything to say. I sit there and worry about my face and how I am sitting because if I can't contribute to the discussion I hope I at least look ok. Last night I dreamed my old lit professor called on me in class and I had a mildly insightful comment about whatever we were reading and he was impressed enough to end the class on that note. I woke up angry that he'd been so easily impressed.

Love letter, East of Eden. I read these pages and think, there is something eluding me and it is like a fucking tiger in the living room but I am still not getting it. Why? I know what all the words mean. This is not David Foster Wallace, I don't need a dictionary or a map, it's subject verb subject verb. I never got Hemingway and all his vocabulary is straight off any fourth-grader's spelling list.

Love letter, East of Eden. It was never really about me. I can read the words all day and it will be like how it is when I use chopsticks. Maybe I will manage to get a few bits into my mouth. But probably not.

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