When I first finished George Eliot's novel The Mill on the Floss, I thought I found a book to add to this list of books that have changed my life. So far, that list is quite minimal, only Dave Egger's The Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius, John Irving's The World According to Garp, and Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being are on that list, so needless to say I was pumped at the notion of adding another one because it makes me feel very literary and smart. As soon as I started developing a thesis for my midterm essay for my 19th Century English Lit course on The Mill on the Floss all passion for Eliot's work flew out of the window. Ugh. It just caused me to question why. Is it the system of education I am trapped in that makes me this way? Is it the fact that I want to separate myself from knowledge that is put on us in order to choose my own way of thinking? Seriously developing a thesis for a book I loved was the hardest thing, and it seems odd that this would be the case. Some things are better left unexplored, the more poking and prodding that goes on ruins the initial and unconscious love.
Enjoy the thesis? ew.
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