I know there are all these pop-science articles about how classics make you a better person and will clean your oven for you and do your taxes and the like, but I’m starting to really believe that reading Little Women is making me a worse person than I was previously. Case and point: I read an hour of the book yesterday while waiting for Tesfa’s craft club to finish, and then came home angry and sullen for the rest of the evening.
I don’t mind the episodic nature of the tale, but the little morals woven in throughout, the sheer goodness of the characters, how selfless they are, how kind, how nice, it just makes me want to punch someone in the head and then scream at the top of my lungs. Thankfully, I just shut myself away to assemble Tesfa’s new car seat (I am weary of buying and assembling car seats. This is the third one since Tesfa is now too small for her current car seat but does not weigh enough for a booster, so I got to shell out more money on a car seat that converts to a booster eventually, and I’m pretty sure by this point I’ve spent more on car seats than I did on diapers and clothes for Tesfa during her entire existence. Edit: My mother actually bought the second car seat and not me, so I take that back about how much I’ve spent on car seats). One might assume that it was following the ridiculous assembly instructions that made me angry, but no, I was angry before. Angry at Little Women.
I always say I want to be earnest, not as sarcastic, kinder, gentler, warmer. No ironic hipster detachment from life, but embracing it. Clearly, however, I can’t. I can’t read a sweet story. I think there is something wrong with the empathy and caring part of my brain.
My kobo tells me I am 77% of the way through. I’m afraid I’m going to murder someone before I get to the end.