Analysis Compulsion

As our class received our new books, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, it became apparent that the unusual shape of the novel bothered a few of my classmates. Some inquired about the book’s “bible” shape while others stared blankly at the cover trying to decide whether a longer and skinnier novel was better than a traditionally shaped book. Oblivious to the novel’s odd shape, I opened the novel and turned to the first real page. My eyes grew wide as I glared at the unusually small side margins on the page. Irrationally concerned, I exclaimed, multiple times, “how will I be able to fit my notes on these pages?” Following Ms. Serensky’s directions, I put the book aside and forgot about this “problem” until I began to read tonight’s reading. As I attempted to write my notes extremely small in the margins, I realized they would not fit. I would have to either condense the notes or write them on a separate sheet of paper. Both of these ideas frightened me. As I pondered this rather absurd phobia, I remembered a time earlier this year in Creative Writing. We were to bring a book to read for pleasure every Wednesday in class. On the first Wednesday, Ms. Beach informed the class to have fun reading and not not worry about taking notes, “this is not English class” she repeated numerous times. I looked about the room as my classmates opened up their novels and began to read. I studied everyone’s hands in hopes I would find one student, grasping a pen to take notes, but I was soon disappointed. After some deliberation, I decided to just read the book as instructed. About ten minutes later, I found myself ironically stressed and anxious while completing a supposedly relaxing and peaceful assignment. I fumbled in my backpack for a pen, and soon scribbled notes and literary devices on every page. Somehow analyzing the text put me at peace, and I was able to enjoy reading for the rest of the period, pen in hand. Wait, what? I found analyzing a book comforting? Now that’s frightening. I wonder why I feel the constant need to analyze the text in front of me. I can somewhat humorously accept analyzing what people say, “that indirectly characterizes her as…” but my need to analyze every book perplexes me. I wonder if subconsciously I feel as though I will not grasp the purpose or meaning of the book if I do not analyze. Who knows? I am left to wonder however, if I will ever read a book without a pen in hand. If not, I guess at least I will make myself feel somewhat smart as I continue to jot down notes in my book.  Although it generates panic over small margins, becomes a part of everyday conversation and increases relaxation while reading a book for fun, literary analysis has, startlingly, become second nature to me!