Intro – Volumes of Regret
by James Roland
Hi, I’m James, and I’m a recovering homeschooler.
Not to say that I regret the void of wedgies, Phys Ed, and awkward prom dates in my life – but there are a few missing social pieces left over from my direct jump from living room to college. Take, for example, my complete inability to connect with The Breakfast Club or the blank stares I receive when I ask questions like “what’s homeroom?”
Before I proceed, I have to defend my upbringing for a moment. Despite the awkwardness, some of the benefits of homeschooling include a desire for learning that isn’t snuffed out by government-regulated processes, a deep-set self reliance, and the right to claim “everything I know I learned in my bedroom.”
But while the philosophy of my education was sound, in my personal journey I found one major factor lacking: my lifelong love of reading never spread to classic literature.
I’ve read volumes of genre and pulp, but Dickens and Twain and Faulkner and Tolstoy and Huxley and O’Connor and London and Kafka and that one Russian guy who’s name I’m not going to look up but starts with a D and writes a lot about death and ethics and stuff, all remain uncracked.
They live on my shelf – ready, willing, and able to be read – but somehow I never find the time to tote around a weighty tome when I can slip some Crichton or King in my back pocket.
No longer.
I’m starting light, to be sure (at least in terms of page count) and now William Golding’s Lord of the Flies rests snuggly in my backpack.
Now, at 26, I’m ready to have my mind shaped by the greats. For each one I read I’ll post a blog on my thoughts, both on theme and social import, like in high school, but also as a work of storytelling and art, which many readers tend to overlook or ignore the older a book becomes.
Over the next year, if you’re bored with Blockbuster spectacle or tired of hip nightclubs and hot women, feel free to log online to share my experience with dusty books.
Cause … you know … it’s about damn time.
