With such great dedication, of course, have come BIG expectations and less than great moments of literary dishonesty. When you are expected to read and be well-read, well, sometimes you end up... lying about books. You claim you read books you didn't read. You say you are re-reading titles just to hide the fact you never read them in the first place. Certain authors aren't your favorite because you read their Wikipedia page and didn't like their author photos... So, you can imagine how tickled I was when I saw this little confessional by Paris Review editor in chief Lorin Stein:
Just this morning—at five o’clock, to be exact—I was staring at the ceiling, thinking about Krapp’s Last Tape and how shocked my favorite college professor would be if he knew I still haven’t seen or read it. At least I hope he’d be shocked. I have never got through any of Beckett’s novels (and have seen almost none of his plays, or anybody else’s). I have never got through Henry Green’s Living or Concluding, though neither one is a long book, and I have sometimes heard myself call Green my “favorite” postwar English novelist, as if I had read enough to have one.
My biggest book-crime is to declare novels My Absolute Favorite by AUTHOR X when I should really be saying This is the only book by AUTHOR X that I read. What's yours?