During summer we used to catch jellyfish at the beach. They were
the size and shape of withered apricots and they didn't sting. We
called them "comb jellies" because they had lateral stripes. We hunted
every day with no effect on the jellyfish population.

Right before catching a jelly, we always anticipated how much fun it
would be to play with. But the jellyfish were delicate: they died on
contact and turned to ooze. So we threw them back and caught more.

Hundreds of jellyfish expired in our hands. They died for our fun. Or
maybe our fun was unrelated to the jellyfish.

I think of jellyfish when I wade among the library shelves. My
enjoyment of a book has a tenuous connection to the book itself. I
pick one up and it turns to ooze. What varies is how long I keep a dead
book in hand before throwing it back for another one.

The fun of reading is not reading, but anticipating what I'll know when
I finish. And as you can guess, I never finish. Like Christmas
stockings, apples, and famous professors, books disappoint in proportion
to the expectations attached to them.

(Just curious: could you smell my allegory a mile away?)

Take care.
Cassidy


P.S. Give DPR my best, and make sure he gets enough citrus in light of
Yale scurvy.


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