The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

For nearly four years now I’ve been actively avoiding novels, except during holidays. I told myself that with the mountains of academic reading to get through, I couldn’t possibly allow myself to get sucked into a novel. It would only be another excuse to procrastinate.

I would then read a million blogs instead.

When I did read books, it wasn’t books I thought I’d enjoy. It was classics that I thought had to be read. I could never admit it to myself if they bored me - that would be failure.

A few weeks ago, after hearing for the umpteenth time that my life was out of a John Birmingham novel, I caved and ordered ‘He Died With a Felafel in his Hand’ from the bookstore I walked past every weekend while on my lunch break. I loved it, and devoured it with a rapidity I hadn’t thought I was capable of any longer.

Last Sunday, I forgot to bring my iPad or The Age to distract myself during my lunch. I had intended to buy The Life of Pi, but I was drawn by the blurb of this book instead.

The writing, though deliberately rigid, is simple and enjoyable and sometimes beautiful. Quotes from this book abound on tumblr, which in all honesty ruined them for me a little when I saw them in context. I’d heard them so often that they lacked the thrill they’d have had if I was reading them for the first time.

That aside, it’s a wonderful book. It’s profound and moving and most importantly it’s enjoyable. I wanted to say that, because I’m happy that I read it (even with a mountain of uni work), and I’m happy that I’m reading for enjoyment again.