Left Behind

It's quite a shame that I've managed to lose track of what authors I should be reading. I had a reading list back in high school, almost ten years ago, and I sincerely kept up with it for quite some time. After a while, though, it started to seem like an exercise in futility. It's still a dream of mine that I should get through at least one representative work by every author on that list that every literary person should be familiar with. I managed Jonathan Safran Foer and Ian McEwan - even watched the movies - but that's pretty much where the sidewalk ended. Murakami has come strongly recommended to me, but he and I seem not to have crossed paths yet. Hanif Qureishi is another name that has stuck in the recesses of my brain. On the way to the media library at the university I graduated from, there was a poster for the film My Beautiful Laundrette. I used to see it everytime I went up and down those stairs, and tell myself I was going to watch the film and read the book. Didn't ever happen. I only read The Kite Runner a couple of months ago, way after the hullaballoo had died down.
Here's the question, then. How important is it that I stay on top of the literary developments as religiously as I want to? Is is merely a fear of being left behind that makes me shudder to think that I haven't read nearly enough? I like to tell myself that if I don't know what's being written out there now, I will not be able to write in a manner fit for present-day consumption. But I'm not sure if that's really what it's all about.
It all boils down to this: there is too much literature out there, good and bad, for me to sit on my haunches and not read it. Never mind that I am a medical student with very little time for reading. And never mind that thanks to the conspicuous absence of a viable library, I don't really have access to good books unless if I buy them. And if I buy them, I have no space to put them and end up in a clutter, after which I can no longer study, which leaves me back in the original mess.
I try deriving some sort of vicarious pleasure through reading literary blogs and listening to podcasts, but maybe I would just be better off finding the time to read a good book.

Up now: 100 years of solitude by Marquez. I know it's not contemporary, but it's what's on hand. Wish me luck.

Chekhov's mistress is now mine

I find it quite amusing that I began this blog more than a year ago, with the sincere and true intention of reading and reflecting. I truly wanted to create erudite, crafted essays on the inherent essence of literature and critical thinking. It really is very funny. It's been over a year now, and I've written exactly nothing. I've taken many pages of notes and I've begun many entries. But I have not yet managed to actually write a piece. Today I thought to ask myself why that may be. Perhaps it is that I am "too busy", as too many of us like to claim. I do a lot of things, yes. I dabble in many unnecessary and necessary endeavors, yes. But is it really true that I am "too busy" to pay attention to that which I claim to love? I think not. I think the truth is, that as Chekhov once said, literature is my mistress, in a manner of speaking, and I have forgotten her. The pleasure that I can find entwined in her arms, after a difficult and trying day with work, my wife, (once again stealing from Chekhov), has escaped my memory. I now seek her forgiveness, her alluring fragrance reeling me in without my permission. Mistress mine, my illicit pleasure, you seductive witch, allow me back into your embrace and let me lose myself in your unfathomable depths. And you, my readers, encourage me and frighten me, I beg of you. Remind me of what I lose when I forget my lover. And perhaps this time I shall not falter.