Well, right after I wrote about how I had avoided the Reader like a kind of celluloid plague, I... went to go see it. That very night. In my defense, it was an ambush. I had convened a few work friends for drinks, and instead of then going to the rice pudding place, Joel somehow finessed us all to the movie theater. I was trying to drown my sorrows over a middling interview, and Joel- empathetic to a fault- knew that the best way to cheer me up would be a movie about Holocaust guilt and the ambiguous quality of literature.
Or, maybe he just wanted to see lots and lots of Kate Winslet's boobies. In which case he really picked the right film. Both Joel and Polina loved the movie, while I was generally more negatively inclined. I'm not sure what Jonathan, the other textbookian, thought since he booked it home pretty quick to his beloved neutrinos (Jon is a physicist. We all have our problems.)
I would write at length about why I didn't like the movie, but since Poli, Joel and I spent a good hour in lively debate on the topic over fries, I won't. I don't think I'm as coherent without the scent of fryer grease in the air.
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