13/02/11 Quiet day of literature

I hate having a slight cold.
I hate being ill enough to have to stay at home without doing much but still being well enough to have a bad conscience for staying at home without doing much.

And still you know that doing something that takes a bit of an effort (such as walking the fairly short distance to the university library, climb the stairs to level 9 and find secondary sources for your Scottish Literature essay) would leave you breathless, weak in your knees and covered in sweat, with a feeling that this certainly wasn't a good idea.
Therefore you keep this in mind in order to make your bad conscience go away.

Today's been one of these days for me. I've spent all day in the flat, coughing, with tea and Finrexin (the Finnish miracle medicine) as remedies for this mysterious semi-illness.

And, after having managed to shake off the aforementioned bad conscience, I came to realise that this kind of day is not that bad after all.

Because I have spent the most part of this gloomy Sunday reading.

I used to be very keen on reading when I was at school. Literature (or "Swedish A1") was my favorite subject in the IB: I read every novel without an effort, liked my teacher and thoroughly enjoyed writing the 4000-word "extended essay" on the subject. I always thought that this was "my thing" and what I was meant to do. Read and analyze various books, that is.

Things got different, however, when I went to university here in Glasgow. Starting the English Literature course last year, I was amazed at myself for finding the books tedious to read, for the awe I felt at writing the essays and the horror I felt about the exams. Literature, which used to be my favorite subject in school was now, at university, definitely my least favorite subject.

And the same feelings followed me when I changed to Scottish Literature for second year.
More than ever, I was struck by the difficulty I had to actually get through the novels. I remember how I, when at school, used to be amazed at some former classmates who said that they found it hard to read books; I never understood it, it was all just to read!
Now I understood them completely. Among the 5-ish novels we had to read for last semester's course, I read only one of them entirely. The Curious Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, about 60 pages long.
I remember how I, on one occasion, forcefully threw Walter Scott's Waverley on the floor, since I just couldn't stand what I thought was the most boring rubbish I'd ever read.
And I was, over and over again, wondering what was happening with me. I used to enjoy reading!!

The last few days, and today in particular, however, things have been different. After starting to read Lanark by Alasdair Gray, I've got some of my old reading habits back. And especially today, being unable to do much else than reading the book in question, I feel like I'm actually, finally, getting somewhere with this book.

The blend of familiar descriptions of Glasgow and almost science fiction-like storytelling are things in novel that seem to have a curious appeal on me. Having already covered about 200 pages, I plan to actually have finished the book by next week's Monday, when my classes on it start.

I feel virtuous and proud of myself for having got around to read the book with such great success, and also for starting to find the Scottish Literature course rather enjoyable.

But most of all I am happy to have re-discovered the old joy of reading, of curling up with a warm cup of tea, forgetting the grey sky and dull tenement buildings outside the window and just letting yourself be drawn into this fictional world, so different and yet so familiar to your own.

That's what days of semi-colds are good for.