I don't usually enjoy non-fiction. I feel some confusion and even guilt over this. Why is it that a smart, inquisitive, young woman such as myself would rather spend her time reading "trash" fiction like the Resident Evil series, rather than enriching her mind or expanding her world view? I often lament my ignorance, yet I am loathe to enlighten myself! The only reason I can discern is isolation.
All of the non-fiction books I have read (even the relatively dry accounts of paleontology) are inflammatory. They provoke thought, they incite questions, they beg to be discussed, explored, debated, shared. I live alone. I have few friends and the friends I do have aren't usually interested in the same subject matter as I am. Even more, I live in a by-and-large frighteningly ignorant community comprised of people who are deliberately subliterate. My badly misjudged attempts at discussing anything with these casual acquaintances beyond the weather and popular sitcoms have resulted in my being ostracized or pitied (yes, pitied!!).
Therefore, when I read non-fiction outside the scope of community, as I by necessity must if I am to read it at all, I often find myself with a nasty case of psychological encephalitis: a thought-inflamed brain. My chasing-churning thoughts have no outlet beyond journaling which, although not entirely useless, is sadly, terribly, inadequate. What is the purpose of imbuing myself with all this knowledge, participating in so much thought if, eventually, even the most piquant thoughts stagnate?
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