One of our neighbors lent us a book, and luckily I grabbed it on my way out the door...err...companionway this morning, because my American Lit professor didn't show up for class yet again. I knew after the first paragraph that this book was written for me. For us. Possibly by Ben, himself. Unless something goes terribly awry in the next fourteen chapters, I'm sure this book will be placed high on my "Good Reads" list.
Sneak a peek:
"I have been called many things in my life, but if there has been but one constant, one barb, one arrow flung my way time after time, it is the accusation that I am, in essence, nothing more than an escapist. Apparently this is bad, suspect, possibly even un-American. Mention to someone that, all things being equal, you'd really rather be on an island in the South Pacific, and they'll look at you quizzically, ponder the madness of the notion for a moment, and say: 'But that's just escapism. Now would you kindly finish stocking the paper clips so we have time to rearrange the Hi-Liter markers? We need to make sure they're color-coordinated.'"
