I’ve been reading a ton of him.

It’s for school–yes. It’s for pleasure–certainly. It’s to become an expert–no.

I’ve always thought it was kinda silly, those professors who become experts, who spend their whole lives studying minutiae about whoever. Henry James. James Joyce. Joyce Carol Oates.

What a waste. So what. You know what Conrad had for dinner his first night in New York City when he visited America in 1923. Awesome. What does that really tell you? What did you learn from that, that you use to engage others in the broader discussion that is your life?

And I don’t mean to pick on English professors. It’s a fault of their medium. I could/would/should say the same thing about music professors or film professors or art–whatever that means–professors, but I can’t. They don’t spend three weeks annotating Madame Bovary.

Paint is seen. Music is heard. Film is both.

Books are read, and reading takes time.

Anyways, back to my point. I don’t have the time for someone who has the time to know everything there is about some author who I don’t get. It’s not that they don’t make useful teachers–they do. Rather, becoming an expert on someone–even if it is Vonnegut–takes a certain tick in someone’s personality. Regardless of boredom, this person–whoever it is–needs to force himself–or herself–to appreciate things that–possibly–even the creator himself–or herself–didn’t appreciate.

At some point, all artists are worse than they can be–or become–and–if anal enough–an artist might not consider anything but his–or her–best work worthy of his–or her–appreciation.

Point made? Good.

So what I’m saying is this: I like Vonnegut and I’ll keep reading him. I’ll even write more about him because, frankly, doing so hasn’t bored me yet. When I’m done, chances are I’ll know more about him than you. But that’s not what motivates me.

I’ll never become an expert on him. Whatever that means.