They didn't notice anything strange: they were silently taking notes, carefully listening, nodding or smiling at the recognition of bits of their Phylosophy or History lessons. But I was just longing for what I love most. Why can't I love teaching Joyce, T.S. Eliot, V. Woolf, Ezra Pound or Orwell as much as I love the Brontes, Dickens, Gaskell, George Eliot, Stevenson or Wilde? I find the themes in the first decades of 20th century literature interesting but so depressing at the same time.
I'm sure and convinced any young person should read or at least know about Orwell's books and his warnings. But can you understand my uneasiness? Maybe I'm just in the wrong mood these days. This is why I need reading something light, just for my delight (see sidebar on the right - currently reading)