Okay, that didn't last long.
I looked through my oldest's books. He's an honest-to-god intellectual, an English major and has bookshelves crammed with volumes of essays and books like The Cambridge Companion to Narrative. He reads this stuff even when he doesn't have to--this is his entertainment.
I picked up a book by a Brazilian author. Oh, man, I have to read and reread the first page -- and the author's voice is annoying, or maybe it's the translator. Could you be any more pompous? So how about a bit of James Joyce instead? Yup, he's simple, elegant compared to that lumbering elephant prose. The Dubliners. I loved those stories right? I think? A story or two in, I remembered the misery.
I wandered out to the family room to find something else to read. Maybe the Essays of George Orwell. That'll expand the mind.
Hey! Right next to Orwell was that missing copy of Cry Mercy by Toni Andrews that I'd started and lost a couple of months back. Yes! Score!
Anyway. I tried, sort of.