Night

Yesterday, I started and finished Elie Wiesel's Night. I managed to make it to 28 without ever having been required to read it, which somehow feels like the result of the world's least read-y high school English education. No kidding. We spent over a month designing a new planet my junior year of high school - what does this have to do with literature? - and another month or so writing a group novel. Of course, my role, being known as the "writer" of our class, became to write and edit the whole damn thing. Luckily, I had a friend named Jed, who took compassion on my sorry task and helped me out in the whole writing-compiling thing. I wish I had a copy of this novel -- I think it involved a ski accident and possibly, a jewel heist. Jed, if you're out there reading this and still have our novel on your computer, send me a copy stat.

I have always wanted to say stat.

The point is, I don't remember reading much of anything except the Count of Monte Cristo, which was so good I raced through it in a few days and spent the next month doodling in my notebook, occasionally writing notes. I didn't say I was a good student in high school -- but had we read more books like Night, I might've sat up a little straighter.

I was finishing it yesterday morning, at Peet's, and the guy at the next table struck up a conversation about it, about how he'll never read it again, about how heavy it is, how it ripped him open. He had plagu-ed artisty hair, so I knew he was not just being dramatic, or maybe just a teeny bit dramatic, but just for emphasis.

"It's very haunting," I said. And I couldn't help it -- I started smiling. But just for emphasis.