My next million dollar idea: reluctant exercise videos with people who aren’t perky.
"Just five more… I know, I kind of want to die right now too, but let’s just power through it."
"Okay, new yoga pose. It’s going to ache like a bastard until your hamstrings release, I’m not gonna lie."
"Stretch a little deeper… it’s okay to yell ‘fuck’ at this point, I won’t tell anyone."
I would watch the fuck out of that shit, and maybe even exercise to it too!
An English major is much more than 32 or 36 credits including a course in Shakespeare, a course on writing before 1800, and a three-part survey of English and American lit. That’s the outer form of the endeavor. It’s what’s inside that matters. It’s the character-forming—or (dare I say?) soul-making—dimension of the pursuit that counts… The English major is, first of all, a reader… The English major reads because, as rich as the one life he has may be, one life is not enough. He reads not to see the world through the eyes of other people but effectively to become other people. What is it like to be John Milton, Jane Austen, Chinua Achebe? What is it like to be them at their best, at the top of their games?
English majors want the joy of seeing the world through the eyes of people who—let us admit it—are more sensitive, more articulate, shrewder, sharper, more alive than they themselves are. The experience of merging minds and hearts with Proust or James or Austen makes you see that there is more to the world than you had ever imagined. You see that life is bigger, sweeter, more tragic and intense—more alive with meaning than you had thought.
Real reading is reincarnation. There is no other way to put it. It is being born again into a higher form of consciousness than we ourselves possess.