Not to be pretentious, Ulysses…

I just finished The Birth of Venus, and thought it was an amazing book.

Wait, let me back up.

I am not a critical reader. I know a good book when I see one, I know poor writing when I’m reading it, but my mind does not do that thing where it squeezes all the symbolism and meaning out of a book while I’m reading it. I basically have two settings: Enjoy!! or meh. I function quite well on these levels. Sometimes I feel like I’m missing out by not reading deeper into things, but then I think, “Maybe some people were meant to drink life to the lees, and some were meant to be sippers.”

I suspect I am a sipper-type. I’m that person that walks into the British Museum, looks around for ten minutes, and then goes, “Well, that’s one down!” (It went very like that, except it was a few hours, and I was shoved out by heat and rude French people.) I just can’t connect to things on that level naturally. I don’t think it’s because I don’t appreciate it – I don’t consider myself a stupid person by any means, but I wonder how many people really enjoy looking at old stuff and how many, like me, are just staring because they think they ought and are sneaking furtive glances to see if anyone else looks as deadly bored? (And actually, I found the British Museum to be kind of depressing. Just a whole bunch of people staring at the stuff of some other, deader people. Like, someday they’re going to have this piece of tupperware I used to hold my lunch in a museum somewhere with a sign saying A crude, but effective plastic food container circa early 21st c.. Like, right now there’s an invisible museum sign pointing to me that says Future dead person, circa ???.)

I wish I were a lees person, sometimes. But then, would be obliged to love EXTREME everything? When I die, am I really going to think, “Gee, I wish I had jumped off that mountain naked with just a doily for a parachute!” or “Gee, I sure wish I had pondered that painting for another thirty minutes!”

I don’t think I will.

I might, you know, think, “Gee, it’s too bad that thing between me and Patrick Dempsey didn’t work out!” ;)

Anyway, this whole thing started because I finished the book. And then I went looking for some clarification of a point I wasn’t quite sure on (that’s what comes of sipping), and found that there were people out there who didn’t like the book! 3.75 out of 5?! That’s like a C. And then, I thought, “Am I a C-book person? Do I like C-books!?”

Well, wait. I do like C-books. Yeah. No, here it is: “Am I a person who thinks C-books are A-books!?”

And then I remembered that whole thing about the museum, and then I thought I’m okay with grading myself on a curve. It would be lovely to be brilliant and deep, like woods that horses like (or something), but I dunno: am I not astounding as I am? I’m only gonna die, anyway. No use in wasting all that depth on a future tupperware mummy-type. And while I live, I’ll just say I thought the book was beautiful. I wanted to be the main character, I wanted to feel her passion for art, I wanted to smell and taste and be immersed in that place, in her story. I get that, and 3.75-out-of-5 gets to keep her measly 1.25.

Sometimes, it ain’t bad to be a sipper.