... and Am Quite Horrified to Admit It
I always loved reading. As a child, I'd read for hours before starting my homework, sitting on the steps beneath the skylight with a bowl of soup or a dish of cheese and crackers, devouring books whole. Having escaped so often to the wonderful world of children's fantasy, I declared that anything designated a "classic work of literature" was atrociously stifling (all the old English! And how it took 50 pages for nothing to happen plotwise!) to be shunned.
I was thus horrified when, in my junior year of high school, I found that I started loving such "classic works of literature," the very books I claimed I would hate forever. My teacher was extraordinary. I fell irrevocably in love with The Brothers Karamazov, Anna Karenina, Madame Bovary, and Swann's Way.
Now on my shelf, waiting to be read, are: Crime and Punishment, War and Peace, Paradise Lost, and The Decameron. The Inner Child of Grace feels betrayed. But ah well.