>The train ride back from Long Island last night took an hour and forty minutes. I figured that I could use the time to get some reading done for my lit class. I am a fool.

The problem is that the book, Safe Conduct by Boris Pasternak, is insanely boring. Maybe boring is not the right word - pretentiously literary probably describes it better. Here is an illustrative passage:

We take people as our symbols so as to overcast them with weather, set them in their natural surroundings. And we take weather, or what is one and the same, nature - so that we may overcast it with our passion. We drag everyday things into prose for the sake of poetry. We entice prose into poetry for the sake of music. This, then, in the widest sense of the word, I called art, set by the clock of the living race which strikes with the generations.

Certainly, this is brilliant writing. I just can't read it. Every time I try to read this autobiography, I fall asleep. I read about 20 pages on the train before I passed out. This is not good for my class discussion possibilities. However, I am glad that I now have a cure for the insomnia that plagues me.

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