Conversations

viii.

         “I don’t understand how you can spend so much time with her, what do you even do?”

         “We do plenty of things—go walking, drink hot tea, watch the cars pass by, talk about literature, it’s the little things really.”

         “Oh! It’s the little things like literature and watching cars, of course. I didn’t realize she was so into that, you didn’t mention all the literature and car watching before. So exciting, so very exhilarating.”

         “It’s not like it’s anything really—”

         “If it’s not anything then why do you keep doing it? Is her fascination with cars and literature so superior to mine that you just can’t stay away?”

         “You know that’s not it, there’s no reason to be so angry about it when it’s not anything.”

         “I’m not angry. That’s the last thing I am. Why would I be angry that you’re hanging out with that phony? I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

         “Oh my God, what are you? The modern day Holden Caulfield, pointing out the fakes from the reals?”

         “No, Holden Caulfield is, in himself, a phony. He discards more multifaceted views of people in favor of simple categorical ones in order to assemble them into superficial groupings that he himself would easily fit into if given the chance. I’m just pointing out that she doesn’t even read books. It’s not the same thing.”

         “What? She reads. Just yesterday she and I had an intricate and stimulating conversation about Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged.”

         “Ha-ha. Of course that’s the type of books she reads! She reads the books everyone is supposed to have an opinion about, the controversial ones that she knows will come up in conversation one day. I bet she doesn’t read the classics, just the important ones like Shakespeare and Austen and Hemingway because they’re famous. She doesn’t read books in the name of simple pleasure. She reads those kinds of works for the sole reason of being able to tell others that she’s read them, as if that somehow makes her as knowledgeable and important as the books she reads. But it doesn’t, that’s not what literature is even about! That’s not why authors make their art. It’s just not.”

         “You’re being so juvenile about this. I don’t understand why it matters if she reads them for enjoyment or reads them for betterment as long as she’s reading. Why must you always overcomplicate things?”

         “Perhaps I am being juvenile, but I just find it so ridiculous that you think just because someone reads things like Othello, The Odyssey, or even Animal Farm, then they’re suddenly some big intellectual.”

         “That’s not even what I think.”

         “Oh, but isn’t it?”

         “No. Let me just clarify this so we can move on to deciding upon where to eat for dinner, I do all those things with her because there’s little else she wants or can do. I don’t think her views—which yes, do traditionally align with the books she reads—make her better than you or anyone else. I deem a girl an intellectual if she has enough brains to realize that what she reads does not make her an intellectual. Are we done now?”

         “Oh, okay, yes, we’re done. I’m thinking we should travel to that little diner on the corner of Fifth and Yale for dinner, my treat, what do you say?”

          “Okay, sounds great. I’ll drive.”