It all started when Instagram introduced the twenty-slide photo dumps. Trying to post the correct ratio of photos to memes to appear both off-the-grid and clued-in to the minutiae of internet culture is tough. There are only so many selfies, photos of my dog, and funny-shaped carpet stains I can share before I come off as a shallow, boring influencer.
Floundering, I decided to post an image in my dump of a book a roommate left behind—The Picture of Dorian Gray. Then, as always, the case with the danger of expressing an opinion on the internet, a Reply Guy asked me about it, and I found myself in a masochistic corner of my own making. Were they to discover my photo was a plea for attention, my carefully curated online persona would come unraveling. They might wonder if my bed really is made every morning, if that’s my real dog, or if I am even a good person.
Out of options, I read Oscar Wilde’s seminal work in one night, like an executioner was watching me. The book was actually relatable, even good. It made me… think. Perhaps the relentless pursuit of youth ultimately depletes our humanity? Or something. I told my Reply Guy this, and he said, “Nice.”
I wasn’t sold on reading, but I did like feeling smart, and Don Quixote is like the Louis Vuitton bag of people with depth. I started bringing books with me onto the train, inside the bodega, to the park, just pretty much anywhere people could see me and wonder, “How can someone so conventionally attractive also have intellectual pursuits?”
But I could only fake flip the pages on the bus for so long without getting bored. It was easier to actually read what was on the page, and well, the rest is history. And science. And philosophy and romance and satire and fiction. I started to learn stuff, like did you guys know that Frankenstein wasn’t the monster? That women couldn’t get a credit card until 1974? Or that the Underground Railroad wasn’t underground like a wine cellar but underground like good music? Or that the CIA overthrew Latin American governments, and that’s where the term “banana republic” comes from?
Soon, when a couple of the cute guys started chatting me up about the book, I got pissed and told them I was busy. Couldn’t they see I was at the climax? I’ve started going to the library, where I can be left alone. I’ve even got my own card now. And you don’t have to buy a nine-dollar latte to be there; they just let you sit down. How cool is that? Now, I’m thinking about digging deeper into other stuff I performatively do—indie films, activism, and my friendships.
