I have been consuming books like a man posessed these past two weeks. Nearly everything I have cracked the covers on is fiction, the stuff made up of the imagination and ether of the author's dreams--nothing dry and heavy like "New Morality in the Workplace", or "How to Rid Yourself of Peptic Ulcers". I choose to escape into a book, believe in the imagination that God gave me, and dream. There can be great beauty in lore and myth, many will write the spun tales off as trash, but myth has survived for thousands or millions of years (depending on your camp, it could be either) and has been passed down and along since time was first counted. Stories can communicate and unite with understanding, foster empathy and elicit a de-ja-vu response based on the fact that all of us share common threads of existence.
I think it is beautiful.
You can call it trash, good on ya. I don't care what you think Mr. or Mrs. Critic. You wax poetic about the political works, I will about the fiction. Perhaps you are enthralled by John Fiske, but I prefer Mark Twain. Like I said, good on ya.
As the poop flies, I have read the following in the last 2 weeks:
Wizzard at Large by Terry Brooks
The Tangle Box by Terry Brooks
Eragon by Christopher Paolini
Eldest by Christopher Paolini
I am currebtly reading
The Silmarillion by JRR Tolkien
Wiches Brew by Terry Brooks (EDIT: NOT Tolkien, apologies, I fat-fingered that one)
Culloden (non-fiction, GASP!) by John Prebble
-Jay "bookworm and self proclaimed nerd" Blair