Last night I laid in bed next to my husband while he read a book discussing four bankers post World War I who were instrumental in causing the Great Depression (Lords of Finance) while I read my book. My eyes darted towards his book and then towards mine, Something Borrowed. I then made the decision not to feel guilty. Sure, he may be reading about some financial and historical event, but I was reading about life in the moment, trying to understand the psyche of a single woman in New York City. I'd wager to say that we are equally educating ourselves with our literature, just in different topics. Right?!
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