Sometimes I read like taking drugs.

What's that game where you take different drugs in lieu of powerups? Some GTA ripoff, I can't place the name. No matter.

When I read Faulkner a few years ago, one side effect was vivid colorful dreams. Falling asleep while reading Faulkner is especially trippy.

That kind of strictly recreational use is the exception though. Most of the books I enjoy are performance-enhancing. They calm me down, they focus me, they provide the rage dumps I need every now and then to keep from murdering you all.

Take Lorrie Moore's Birds of America, a collection of short stories I'm reading for Prof. Hoffmann's class.

Moore understands endings. I wish I could write natural, brilliant endings like hers. What's more, she sprinkles her stories with injections, subtle puns, and various other bits that make you pay attention. So when I left the library tonight, I was paying attention. Really seeing, as Dillard might say.

It was a rush. Side effects include heightened senses, shocking lucidity, apophenia.

Is it good luck, or a bad omen, to see Prof. Goldgar's light, invariably the last in Main Hall, go out for the night?

Now I'm down again, of course. Our Bold Hero with his mind full of clutter.