I received the copy of Wole Soyinka’s The Interpreters 2 weeks ago. Little by little, I devour its page until the nagging and persistent boredom attacks me. Bit by bit, I try to understand its meaning. Whether I’m sitting aboard the usual morning jeepney ride, or standing in the LRT, I read it as I used to read C.S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia. The difference is, I’m quite dead bored. I CANT interpret The Interpreters.
That I am lost somewhere in pages 40-50 after a two-week period of possessing the book is a proof that I am losing the grip of reading it. Of course there are books that lasted up to 3 months before I finish them (like the Fountainhead) but this book is a required reading for me. It is going to be my first report in my Masters’ class. To think that I still have to read tons of short stories and poems, and yep, my second report, James Joyce’s A Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man (immaturely chosen, simply because it is quite familiar).
Yesterday, I had tried to cheat the report by asking Ashyah, if she knew anything about it. She said she knows the plot. She denies up until now to tell the plot since it is my report and I’m responsible for reading it. Guess that’s a fallback of having a super honest friend. Besides, I am not supposed to break what I am trying to teach to my students: READing THE NOVEL.