I just finished reading The Time Traveler’s Wife a few days ago. It was long–a long long book with a long long story that has numberless moments of “enough already! When will Henry keep still?!” Amazingly though, it maintains a captivating power that compels one to keep reading until the glimpses of an 83-year old Clare.
I’ve never really been interested in time travel– The Time Machine, Back to the Future, they never caught my interest. Maybe it’s the detailed discussion of particles and momentum that fails to intrigue me especially since science has never been one of my strong points. Feed me trivia, I’ll wag my tail but spare me the complexities of logic. Even when my beloved former-physics-prodigy-turned-award-winning-literary-writer/teacher dissected the science of Time Traveler’s Wife, I found myself nearly snoozing, wishing that I could personally own a time machine just so I could zoom myself to another place, another time–one that’s less analytical.
Drinking is better if we don’t worry about liver problems and hangovers; school would be better if we stop needless anxieties over grades or whether we answered a question number 3 correctly. Likewise, reading too much into literature takes away some of its meaning.
Hay, over-thinking always steals the fun out of things.