In high school there was a guy who was always reading. In class, at lunch, on the bus; it didn't matter where he was, his head was always in a book. Most of his books were long paperbacks of the fantasy variety that made me yearn for the imaginary extremes of my youth. His constant reading, even at the expense of a classroom lecture, seemed to me as much an act of defiance against the academic institution as it was an indulgence in fantastical realms.
Looking back, I realize this guy had a profound influence on me, and I don't even remember his name. He was indeed nameless, as I never saw anybody talking to him. But that attitude he had of dismissing the reality of high school for being a boot camp of social conformity really attracted me. His carefree mental wanderings influenced me in a way I hadn't fully acknowledged until recognizing that ever since I "met" him, I've been reading so voraciously that the only times I failed to read 20,000 pages in a year were during my peak years of college. We were both social outcasts, the only difference between us being his ability to shove it all aside with a book, while I stumbled uncomfortably through the mazes of cliques, trying to fit in somehow. Once I picked up a book like he did, it gave me the power to let it all go.
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