it was my first day back and my english professor immediately asks us to write our definition of literature:
Beverly Cleary helped me grow up. C.S Lewis is why I have an imagination. Howard Roark (The Fountainhead) is the greatest misunderstood and badass character in all of literature. I painted my room yellow, got a haircut, and rode my bike for hours on end after reading about Edna Pontellier (The Awakening). I felt at home with Joan Foster (Lady Oracle) and after I read it I began journaling in hopes to look back one day and find my own versions of dance recital fiascos, Royal Porcupines, and fake deaths. Frankenstein warned me about just how terrifying revenge can be. Three Cups of Tea changed the course of how I process information. The Great Gatsby is the grand influence of my fashion sense (I swoon over the thought of the crisp linens, seersucker, dresses, and bowties.) On The Road made me feel antsy and in search of adventure. I have stared at The Avoider (a painting at the High) for hours because as unhealthy as it is, my philosophy tends to lean towards hoping that problems go away if they’re ignored. I am a product of a childhood spent listening to Paul Simon and James Taylor, they are present in every memory I have. The Format (the greatest band to ever live) is how I survived high school and why I’m on the indie side of life. Their lyrics have weaseled their way into my everyday language. Literature is there when I brood, when I drive in my car, when I feel restless, when I am devastated beyond measure, when I am elated. Literature is drinking hot tea and reading blogs, and rejoicing with others as our favorite band plays on stage. Literature changes people. Literature changes me. Literature makes my heart ache. Literature is home.
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