Sean had me Netflix Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas for him. As soon as I brought it home from the mailbox, he pulled it up on his laptop.

Afterwards he handed me the disc and said, “Very good movie. I might watch it again here in a bit.”

“Unfortunately, I’ve never used drugs, so I don’t know if those scenes were accurate,” he went on. “But I love his voice…his writing style.”

I finished watching a supremely enjoyable episode of Detective Conan, and then I looked the infamous Mr. Thompson up on Wikipedia. I found out who he was two years ago, and I really had no inclination to research him further, but Sean’s interest piqued my interest. Plus, I wanted to “prove” that Thompson did in fact die with his grandchild in the house and his wife on the phone.

Now I just feel tired.

My husband is a very intelligent man, and I don’t doubt that Thompson’s writing is interesting and funny. But I still balk at the idea of glorifying a man who lived and died the way he did.

I’ve never read a word the man wrote. Part of me feels like I should. Part of me really doesn’t want to, feels that doing so would violate my core beliefs. And then the first part comes back and says, well, isn’t life about paradigm shifts, learning, growing, accepting, changing, and coming back to yourself to find your core evolved and reaffirmed?

I don’t know why the quest for knowledge can be so tiresome. But this isn’t new. I’ve always found the idea of pursuing knowledge I don’t want to care about tedious. Is this the point where the enlightened soul pushes on? What happens to the person who just closes the book?