Analyze That

Image from Flickr user Pink Sherbet Company

Thus far in my blogging career, with one post under my technological belt, I have discovered that blogging is quite a therapeutic activity. Ironically, the manner in which my catharsis occurs is by confessing my most personal truths to a bunch of strangers on the internet (hi, Mom).

In my last entry, I disclosed my predisposition to read slowly, and as I meditated on my blog topic for this week, another confession kept creeping into my mind. Hence, you, my faithful readers, have the privilege and the curse of standing as my cyberspace shrinks. Therefore, as I lie on this comfy virtual couch, I confess to you (under patient-doctor privileges, of course) that I am a literary masochist.

The books I most thoroughly enjoy are those that wrench my heart out and don’t let go; they are the books that make me cry and keep me depressed for weeks. My favorite Twilight installment is New Moon, for crying out loud (yes, I read Twilight, and no, I am not fourteen-years-old). Whenever my mother senses that I am in low spirits, she asks what I am reading. In most occasions, the root of my depression is either that the network has aired a rerun of Gossip Girl on a Monday night, or that I am in the midst of reading a deeply touching book. My mom discovered the strong effects books have on me when, after reading Paula, Isabel Allende’s memoir of her daughter’s death, I didn’t see the sunlight for three days despite ideal weather conditions. Did I mention it was spring break and we were in the Bahamas?

I am aware that my relationship with literature is masochistic, and that literature is abusive towards me. But I simply cannot leave her. She is my anchor, the one that I identify with, and the one that is always there. Literature always understands me, and I always understand her (okay, not always; I still have no idea what the heck Pynchon is saying). But at least we try to understand each other. And yes, she makes me cry and hurts me once in a while, but then she inevitably surprises me and lifts me back up. Sometimes she disappoints me, but other times she knows exactly what kind of flowers I like (metaphorical flowers, that is). Besides, crying is the best part of our relationship. It is in the most melancholy moments that literature challenges me to truly look into myself and meditate on what touches me, what inspires me, what disgusts me—and that’s much more than I can say for any boy who’s ever made me cry.

So go ahead, analyze me. But you might be a little bit too late, since I have already diagnosed myself. I am a compulsive literary masochist, and proud of it.

About Patricia Ball

Patricia Ball (CAS '11) is a literature writer for the Quad.

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