everything was beautiful and nothing hurt

When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in bad condition at that particular moment, but that the same person is just fine in plenty of other moments. Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is 'So it goes.'"

When I read too much, or three or more books at a time, the stories all blend together. when I'm reading, the words go directly from the page to my brain, skipping my eyes altogether. I'm skipping along, tumbling, drowning in this stream of consciousness. I can't pause, can't take a breath. But what happens next, when the word life-raft runs out and I can't remember a single phrase to keep myself afloat with?

There are some books I just can't make myself read. Everyone keeps telling me how great Catch-22 is. You just have to read it. But here I am, page 33, and I'm choking. I don't think I'm going to make it. Some books I just read. I left off Catch22 for Slaughterhouse Five, a book I never wanted to read because I was afraid of the title. But as I'm reading along, enjoying the ride (even though i know i'm going to drown in all this war stuff) there's someone else there too. This reader. As I'm reading along, suddenly it's not only Billy Pilgrim's and Kurt Vonnegut's voice in my head. There's this other person, some nameless tyrant with a pencil, who has found the need to comment in the margins.

I appreciate that it's in pencil. I love to make notes. That's active reading. But all the same, keep your comments in your own damn copy and get out of my head. I thought the reader was humorous at first, but now he's just smug. He feels the need to comment on tiny inconsistencies. There is about one spelling error in the book, but this reader finds it, questioning whether the song shouldn't say, "BARN?" instead of bar. "AN I.Q. OF 103 IS ACTUALLY ABOVE AVERAGE." The reader informs me, smugly. Hello, would it ever cross your mind that that might be the point? When the childhood Billy Pilgrim wets his pants, the reader says, contemptuously, "AT TWELVE YEARS OLD?"
So he wet his pants. He's not exactly the heroic protagonist anyway. How funny, the reader doesn't seem to comment when, later, it's much worse.
"HOW MUCH OF THIS IS STOLEN FROM CATCH22?" The reader asks.
Well, I wouldn't know, would I? I'm reading this one first. I'd like to write back.
And finally, "HA,HA KURT." The reader says, taking on a gratingly familiar tone with the author. Mind-jolting or thought provoking comments in the margins I can accept. Even corrections about grammar or punctuation or style (no one's perfect, maybe they'll get it right in the next edition.) But what purpose do these comments serve?
Gah. I'm going to get an eraser.
Maybe later I'll force myself to struggle on with Catch 22.