EMTe wrote:I'm too literate and intelligent.
Don't underestimate yourself.
You should never underestimate your own intelligence. It may turn out to be an impossible task.
-- Updated 2017 August 22nd, 3:39 pm to add the following --
Venividivici wrote:There are just some things you learn to appreciate with age. As a child, I despised reading any book and during "reading time" in class I would hold an opened book up to conceal my face so that my teacher or fellow students wouldn't know I was trying to nap in the rare case one of them would take their eyes of their book and happen to turn my direction. I found the value of reading books as adult because I realized that books convey profound ideas and experiences that take a season of time to discover, and I have the benefit of absorbing those ideas and experiences in one sitting.
Studies show that reading fiction (good fiction) helps people learn what motivates others, how, why,and what others think, and helps people learn how to navigate in a complex social map spotted with people of different personalities and dispositions.
This what i wrote above I heard, not read. So I can't direct you to the source, the actual studies.
Interestingly, on a more personal level: I always liked fiction. Before age 15, when I no longer was able to get through a book, any book -- a sudden-onset ADD hit me. But I related to poetry like the way you related all literature. I could not stomach poetry, and now I'm a suczker for it. This is the poem that inspired me to do a face-about:
A man filled with the gladness of living
Put his keys on the table,
Put flowers in a copper bowl there.
He put his eggs and milk on the table.
He put there the light that came in through the window,
Sound of a bicycle, sound of a spinning wheel.
The softness of bread and weather he put there.
On the table the man put
Things that happened in his mind.
What he wanted to do in life,
He put that there.
Those he loved, those he didn't love,
The man put them on the table too.
Three times three make nine:
The man put nine on the table.
He was next to the window next to the sky;
He reached out and placed on the table endlessness.
So many days he had wanted to drink a beer!
He put on the table the pouring of that beer.
He placed there his sleep and his wakefulness;
His hunger and his fullness he placed there.
Now that's what I call a table!
It didn't complain at all about the load.
It wobbled once or twice, then stood firm.
The man kept piling things on.
I read it in the Atlantic Monthly, and I reproduced it here without the permission of either the poet or the publication.
I very much doubt that either one would take offence at this. All publicity is good publicity, and for the poet, well, a poet wants to be heard and read before everything else, and the more eyeballs read his poetry the more satisfied he gets.