When you’re different, on the down side, you learn to live from one scarce rich moment to the next, no matter the distance between. You become like a camel in a vast scorched desert dotted with precious few oases, storing those cool, watery moments in your hump, assuring survival until you stumble upon the next.
Chris Crutcher, “A Brief Moment in the Life of Angus Bethune”
Anyone could see that the wind was a special wind this night, and the darkness took on a special feel because it was All Hallows’ Eve. Everything seemed cut from soft black velvet or gold or orange velvet. Smoke panted up out of a thousand chimneys like the plumes of funeral parades. From kitchen windows drifted two pumpkin smells: gourds being cut, pies being baked.
Reading is everything. Reading makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something, learned something, become a better person. Reading makes me smarter. Reading gives me something to talk about later on. Reading is the unbelievably healthy way my attention deficit disorder medicates itself. Reading is escape, and the opposite of escape; it’s a way to make contact with reality after a day of making things up, and it’s a way of making contact with someone else’s imagination after a day that’s all too real. Reading is grist. Reading is bliss.
Teens don’t read books like [Laurie Halse] Anderson’s or [Patrick] Ness’s, [Judy] Blume’s or [Robert] Cormier’s, or any other books published as YA each year as how-to guides. They don’t read them as prescriptions for how to engage in violence or how to join gangs or how to be promiscuous (which only ever applies to teen girl characters anyway). They’re smart enough to know the whole story matters. That challenges and situations matter in context — their adolescence.
Do adults read Gone Girl as a prescription for how to ruin a marriage?