down from on high and ordered the acolytes to drink.”
“See, this is what I think,” I ventured, wanting to get in on the conversation and impress them with my insights. “You ever been inoculated?” All three nodded. “Okay, so what is an inoculation anyway? It’s a tiny virus. You’re intentionally making your body sick in order so that you can fight sickness later.”
“This isn’t going to be a government conspiracy thing, is it, Thomas?” Aubrey wondered. “Not that I have anything against that sort of obsession, I’m just wondering how we got on this topic.”
“No, follow me on this. This is why people cannot summon up the gumption to challenge themselves in their reading habits. Literature is a virus, see. For whatever reason, parental insistence, an attractive school librarian, no TV, whatever, we were inoculated at a young age against literature. Sure, it made us all cry at first, having to concentrate our fragile minds, but after a while the body adapted. My mom made me read
Hop on Pop
, and now I can read Pynchon without flinching. Others, however, the inoculation didn’t take, or they never got the shot and now they’re too old to survive the initial needle, and consequently they’ve remained allergic to literature, they have no built-up immunity. Sure, theycan still take the low-grade fever viruses okay, they can survive a Mary Higgins Clark with no serious after-effects, and maybe they even like the thrill of pushing their tolerance by reading a Crichton or a Dan Brown, something that makes them feel like they’re smart. But dare to put a Pynchon or a Helprin or your Foster Wallace there under their noses and
wham!
Anaphylactic shock. The nervous system can’t take it and shuts down, and the victim is paralyzed, and must now suffer a
Who’s the Boss?
marathon on TBS to recharge their batteries.” I broke off my rant as the others seriously considered this.
“So that’s why the customers run from us,” Danae said. “It’s not from annoyance at our hyper selling techniques and eagerness to please, it’s a visceral, instinctual reaction to what we represent. We’re carriers of the plague.”
“I like it,” Warren said. “Makes perfect sense. Typhoid Warren, that’s me.”
“While it may make some sense logically,” Aubrey offered, “the analogy may serve to turn people off the art form further. ‘Literature is a virus’ is hardly the slogan you’d want to promote too actively, it might ensure that parents never introduce their children to the written word. Think of how it would look on a T-shirt, it’d be a relations disaster. We can’t change the world, much as we’d like to. All we can do is try and keep the good books out of the sales racks, try to keep the authors afloat.”
“It makes me cry, seeing good books get remaindered,” Danae said. “Kind of like watching a friend fail miserably at something.”
We looked at one another across the expanse of the table, a vague unhappiness permeating the spaces between us. I felt the sudden urge to link hands, form a circle, start chanting to ward off the encroaching darkness. Instinctively, I fingered the meds in my pocket.
Danae broke the silence. “Oh, since we’re on the subject, guys, I’ve got a perfect montag for the next meeting.”
“Oh, yeah, me too,” gushed Warren, suddenly perked up. “It’s a sweet ’tag, when’s the next meet?”
“Shut up, the both of you,” whispered Aubrey viciously. “Oh, man, sorry,” said Warren, glancing at me. “Wasn’t thinking.”
“Sorry, I forgot, sorry,” Danae said. She blushed as Aubreyscowled at her, lowering her head, a red stain appearing from her neck to hairline. A good colour on her. The three of them busied themselves with their food.
“What?” I asked. I was on the receiving end of a very cold front. “What’s up?”
“Nothing, friend,” said Aubrey. “Nothing at all. Just . . . stuff between us, that’s all. Right, guys?” Warren
“See, this is what I think,” I ventured, wanting to get in on the conversation and impress them with my insights. “You ever been inoculated?” All three nodded. “Okay, so what is an inoculation anyway? It’s a tiny virus. You’re intentionally making your body sick in order so that you can fight sickness later.”
“This isn’t going to be a government conspiracy thing, is it, Thomas?” Aubrey wondered. “Not that I have anything against that sort of obsession, I’m just wondering how we got on this topic.”
“No, follow me on this. This is why people cannot summon up the gumption to challenge themselves in their reading habits. Literature is a virus, see. For whatever reason, parental insistence, an attractive school librarian, no TV, whatever, we were inoculated at a young age against literature. Sure, it made us all cry at first, having to concentrate our fragile minds, but after a while the body adapted. My mom made me read
Hop on Pop
, and now I can read Pynchon without flinching. Others, however, the inoculation didn’t take, or they never got the shot and now they’re too old to survive the initial needle, and consequently they’ve remained allergic to literature, they have no built-up immunity. Sure, theycan still take the low-grade fever viruses okay, they can survive a Mary Higgins Clark with no serious after-effects, and maybe they even like the thrill of pushing their tolerance by reading a Crichton or a Dan Brown, something that makes them feel like they’re smart. But dare to put a Pynchon or a Helprin or your Foster Wallace there under their noses and
wham!
Anaphylactic shock. The nervous system can’t take it and shuts down, and the victim is paralyzed, and must now suffer a
Who’s the Boss?
marathon on TBS to recharge their batteries.” I broke off my rant as the others seriously considered this.
“So that’s why the customers run from us,” Danae said. “It’s not from annoyance at our hyper selling techniques and eagerness to please, it’s a visceral, instinctual reaction to what we represent. We’re carriers of the plague.”
“I like it,” Warren said. “Makes perfect sense. Typhoid Warren, that’s me.”
“While it may make some sense logically,” Aubrey offered, “the analogy may serve to turn people off the art form further. ‘Literature is a virus’ is hardly the slogan you’d want to promote too actively, it might ensure that parents never introduce their children to the written word. Think of how it would look on a T-shirt, it’d be a relations disaster. We can’t change the world, much as we’d like to. All we can do is try and keep the good books out of the sales racks, try to keep the authors afloat.”
“It makes me cry, seeing good books get remaindered,” Danae said. “Kind of like watching a friend fail miserably at something.”
We looked at one another across the expanse of the table, a vague unhappiness permeating the spaces between us. I felt the sudden urge to link hands, form a circle, start chanting to ward off the encroaching darkness. Instinctively, I fingered the meds in my pocket.
Danae broke the silence. “Oh, since we’re on the subject, guys, I’ve got a perfect montag for the next meeting.”
“Oh, yeah, me too,” gushed Warren, suddenly perked up. “It’s a sweet ’tag, when’s the next meet?”
“Shut up, the both of you,” whispered Aubrey viciously. “Oh, man, sorry,” said Warren, glancing at me. “Wasn’t thinking.”
“Sorry, I forgot, sorry,” Danae said. She blushed as Aubreyscowled at her, lowering her head, a red stain appearing from her neck to hairline. A good colour on her. The three of them busied themselves with their food.
“What?” I asked. I was on the receiving end of a very cold front. “What’s up?”
“Nothing, friend,” said Aubrey. “Nothing at all. Just . . . stuff between us, that’s all. Right, guys?” Warren
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