I have not read “Anna Karenina.” I haven’t read Chaucer or Marx or Roth. I couldn’t quote a single word from “The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath,” and I’ll bet three nickels and an apple core that you couldn’t either.

There’s no shame in that, though. We can’t all have the literary proclivity of a transient People’s Park inhabitant or, say, a Gilmore Girls dialogue writer. Unfortunately, that hasn’t stopped me from being publicly shamed for my ambivalence toward the world’s store of renowned fiction. I’d like to read — or rather, I’d like to like to read — but carving out time to finish a novel is hard to swing when you’re as popular and involved as me. I’m too overbooked for books.

Tragically, Berkeley is rotten with opportunities to be accosted by pedantic book people (PBPs, for short), and for some reason, most of those opportunities are at Starbucks. Something about the worn-down leather loveseats, the perpetual underabundance of carrot cake — “Sorry sir, we’re all out — would you like a bear claw?” — and the year-round holiday music signals that this — THIS — is a place to discuss fine literature.

So your third-favorite English-major friend walks in and gets in line. He has that look in his eyes that says, “I’m going to order a Blonde Roast coffee and work on my screenplay,” and you happily interrupt that look with a wave.

He strolls over: “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What’s up, man?”

“Not much, you?”

“Not much, you?”

“Not much.”

And before you can say priority Tele-BEARS, he’s talking about “Lolita.”

Fear not, though, brothers and sisters. I have spent years in the trenches, prowling the bowels of Starbucks, waiting, learning and growing stronger, and I am now prepared to impart to you the necessary steps to ensure your safe navigation across seas of stormiest pretension and through thickets of wildest d-baggery. Consider this the Halloween column. This year, let’s all dress up as PBPs and treat ourselves to the trick of the century: lying about how literate we are.

Step one: Let PBPs do the talking. If their Urban Outfitters skinny jeans are honest and their leather satchel true, they will relish the opportunity to share all of their penetrating insights. Just try to nod and appear engaged. Occasionally, and only when appropriate, throw out a “That’s really interesting; I totally didn’t think about that” or a “Yeah, his prose gave me an orgasm, too” — or, if things start to get dicey, a “That leather satchel is amazeballs; where did you get it?”

Step two: Use big words. Book people are big-word-seeking missiles at heart, so any agnosticism they may harbor in relation to your belletristic connoisseurship can be propitiated by some exceptional vocab. (While they’re inconspicuously Googling those words on their phones, you can call an Uber and escape.)

Step three: Have a stock set of two or three books that you CAN talk about, and be ready to reference them if the need presents itself. My three are “Crime and Punishment,” “The Giver,” and Corey Feldman’s autobiography. (To clarify, I only read the SparkNotes for “Crime and Punishment,” but to a turgid bookish type, saying Dostoevsky’s name out loud is in conversation what a postcard and three dollars are to an orphan in Sierra Leone. And I think both are tax-deductible.)

Step four: Dress the part. Depending on how comfortable you are with inhabiting the body of a monster, costumes can be fun and especially effective with acquaintances or strangers. If you are so inclined, get your hands on some thick-rimmed glasses, but take care to pick the right pair. The thickness of the rims and the size of the lenses are scientifically proven to correspond directly with human intelligence, so be realistic about how smart you are — or can pretend to be — and choose accordingly. We already covered the satchel and skinny jeans. Advanced players: Carry yourself with a posture that makes it obvious that you’re tortured by inner demons that can only be redressed through the restorative spiritual power of the written word.

Step Five: Don’t take any of this too seriously. Poking fun at PBPs — like doorbell ditching your local congressman and Wii bowling — is a pastime best practiced in moderation and with a spirit of sportsmanship in mind.

Sure, their fedoras are a little too aware of themselves, and they all but wheel their vinyl record players around on tree dollies to show how much they “get it.” But in a lot of ways they do “get it,” and that’s why we hate them. They’re mysterious and knowledgeable and can survive purely on caffeine and elegant salads, and, damn them, they look good in their well-read-hipster clothes. They’re kind of like a mix between a Twilight vampire and a Berkeley Food Collective cashier.

So for Halloween this year, let’s exact our temporary revenge on the smart people by dressing up like them for a day. (Or forever. Whatever floats your Kindle.) That way, us philistines can keep on, you know, not reading books, pedantic book people can feel validated and understood, Starbucks can sell more carrot cake, and everyone can die happy.

And don’t worry about any PBPs finding out about our little game. All the smart people are reading the Wall Street Journal right now. Or, like, a book or something.

Jacob Leonard writes the Thursday column on the plight of the young. You can contact him at jleonard@dailycal.org or follow him on Twitter: @leonardjp.