I consistently overestimate my ability to enjoy books not written for a modern audience.
It makes me wonder how often I’m unknowingly setting myself up for failure whenever I talk about how
excited I am to read Dante’s Inferno, or how the Iliad is superior to the Odyssey and the Aeneid. I enjoy
framing myself around the names of classics as though their fame could shroud me. How much of my
mind is based around promises I’ve made myself to love what seems natural?
It makes me wonder how often I’m unknowingly setting myself up for failure whenever I talk about how
excited I am to read Dante’s Inferno, or how the Iliad is superior to the Odyssey and the Aeneid. I enjoy
framing myself around the names of classics as though their fame could shroud me. How much of my
mind is based around promises I’ve made myself to love what seems natural?
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