There are times – many, many, countless, so many times – when I feel like a bit of an idiot. One of the most frequent times this feeling pops up (a feeling which pops up many, many, countless, so many times) is when I realise I have missed out on something I clearly would have loved.
Today this happened with my reading of a short story by Mark Twain.
Now my knowledge of Mark Twain, whom I just unthinkingly wrote ‘Mark Twat’, isn’t terrible. I knew he was a writer of certain popular books, there was furore about the changing of the word ‘nigger’ to ‘slave’ (because that was a clever and subtle decision jesus h crikey) in modern times, Kurt Vonnegut always called him the best writer of all ever, and he was the subject of one of Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventures in the cartoon where a man was measuring rope and every time he got to a certain length he would shout “Maaaark Twaaaain!” and Bill and Ted ran up and went “where?!” and it was funny and oh god why do I remember that.
Anyway, I wasn’t totally blind. So why had I not bothered reading his stuff? I do not know. Lunacy, maybe. But whatever the reason it has now made me feel a total idiot for missing out for 29 years, even though I haven’t been able to read for all of those years (I was born fully-literate, I lost the ability to read for a three year stretch in my early 20s as a result of acute iodine poisoning (this may be a lie)).
Anyway, I will rectify this. And apologise to whoever needs apologising to. Because Twain is clearly right up my alley, as he’s funny, witty, sarcastic and delightfully surreal. Just like me.
I’m saying I’m better than Mark Twain, basically.