"A good book should leave you... slightly exhausted at the end."

CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH MAJOR
Presently, I am reading Ann Radcliffe's The Mysteries of Udolpho and am deeply regretting it. Before you judge this English major for making such a provocative statement, let me explain.

Each of us has a list of things we know to be true about ourselves but prefer to deny. An interest in science fiction melodramas, an obsession with unicorns, a soft spot for Bros, a Tom Cruise fan club membership, an addiction to reality tv, a fear of Spongebob, an unknown language listed on our resume: these qualify. Denying these things, to both ourselves and our peers, is an everyday activity and a required component of protecting ourselves from...ourselves...and the crazy that lives beneath. In fact, we work at perfecting this denial and making that perfection evident to everyone around us. The best "denyers" may be characterized as artists for the craft is a difficult one to master; the worst may be wrongly categorized as victims of multiple personality disorder. Poor souls. Most of us rest somewhere in the middle and are simply referred to as freaks. The worst thing a denyer could ever do, of course, is to admit/confess one's fault to one's self. Once you stop denying your fault to yourself, all hope is lost.

This you have seen many times, I'm sure...especially while growing up. Your mother-or father- has just lost the keys and is running late for work. Upset, (s)he blames the spouse or the child for the loss of said keys and makes speeches on such irresponsible habits. Fifteen minutes has passed and the upset individual has just found said keys among personal belongings. DOES (S)HE SUBMIT? NEVER!!! It then becomes necessary for previously upset individual to reason the obvious explanation--that you forgot you already had them--far far away by insisting that someone--even if it has to be a magic night elf--MUST have moved the keys or attempted to frame an innocent party.

(The madness of all of this is, of course, denied
as a means of maintaining sanity.)

Should (s)he ever admit to having been in the wrong--even if only to the self--all credibility would be lost and all titles to sanity would be henceforth removed.

And so, reading The Mysteries of Udolpho has made me commit the worst of crimes, for I have been forced to accept the long-denied fact that I am a 'scoffable' NERD. Reading this book on the bus or in my room is ALWAYS accompanied with a large neon highlighter, crinkled pages are in abundance, emotions are often evident, eyes are ajar, gasps are expressed, smiles are plastered on my face during paragraphs of text, reverberating laughter is uncontrollable, margins are devoured with notes, and words are ghastly circled, underlined, or imprisoned (neighboring words having been slashed and sacrificed to the pen gods).

There is a painting by Magritte which perhaps best visualizes what I mean. When a professor introduced this painting to me, he mentioned its brilliant irony since "NO ONE REALLY READS A NOVEL LIKE THIS." Such an expression would suggest she is insane! So if Magritte's enthusiastic female is supposed to be ironic, then the fact that I REALLY DO read like this and am admitting it to myself should be enough evidence for my insanity and enough incentive for you to ALWAYS DENY YOUR FAULTS.

Sooo...yes, this English Major is regretting her decision to read The Mysteries of Udolpho because some mysteries are best left alone.