A few weeks ago I went camping for a night with five of my mates. While there, they called over a trio of girls who were setting up tent in the plot next to ours. The entire time the girls were there I sat on my lonesome prodding the fire and only vaguely listening in on the conversation. It was mostly uninteresting. “What’s your favourite TV show?” or “What type of music are you in to?” or, sadly, “What foods do you like?”
Eventually, the topic of books was somehow brought up in the random array of subjects, although the only things I heard were derogatory to the art of reading and writing. “I don’t read,” or “I’ll never read a book,” or “Why would I read a book when I can watch a movie?” It disheartened me, and it made me understand how isolated I am in the 21st century as a literature enthusiast.