Will somebody please tell me why I read these damn novels?

During the Cold War, my dad devoured spy novels. His shelves bowed under the weight of Ludlum and le Carre paperbacks. He even did a little Tom Clancy, as I recall, in spite of the politics. So I'll just blame my genes for not letting me put down this damn Patrick O'Brian book. I'm now on The Ionian Mission, the eighth of these soggy novels and I still don't know what the heck half the words mean, between the aft and the poop. Back in high school history class, I slept through much of the Napoleonic wars unit(maybe I was in love or going through some internal growth spurt). I'm from the prairie. It's all I can do to remember where Mauritius is and when they refer to The Cape, I couldn't tell you which continent its on. Maybe that's why I love these books. They have nearly nothing to do with my life.

Of course, there's more to the books than boats. There's espionage, promiscuous widows, political debates, drug abuse, animals telling you what's on their minds ("An egg!"), "painfully beautiful" boys breaking hearts in both sexes, fake Chinese poetry, and debauched sloths.

And just imagine the hats!

But maybe I should go out and get some fresh air or something.