Just a silly musing...

Have you ever picked up an obscenely long novel? One of those books that you buy at the book store, you get it home and it feels like it will be an eternal source of entertainment. No matter how much time you devote to it, sleep calls you eventually, and the looming threat of tomorrow's alarm clock persuades you to reluctantly put the book down. You carefully place the bookmark between the two pages where you left off and unconsciously survey your progress.

The book is 6cm thick and after how many hours you still have 5cm to go. This is a good thing, you're getting your money's worth out of this book. But wait, this is silliness. The contents of the book cannot be nearly measured in centimeters, the most cold, dead base units of measure. This tendency to apply these purely objective units is somewhere hidden in the depths of our brains (long trained by society towards materialism and objective measure).

Here we find ourselves taking one of the most abstract and cerebral forms of human expression and unconsciously measuring it with one of the simplest and least expressive techniques available. It's strange. It doesn't make the novel any less enjoyable, and if the story is long, it's long. If the story is short, it's short. So long as it's a good story that's enjoyable, thought provoking, and interresting, so be it. I'll enjoy reading it, but still, somewhere deeply burried is this strange part of my brain saying how much?.