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raging insomnia, quietly
Dec. 30th, 2003 08:11 pmLast night's storm killed one of the most beloved old trees in town. Sic transit, etc.
For anyone still wondering about the theme of the piece, my mad two-month depression (as in "self-indulgent mood traditionally called") shows no sign of subsiding, and the situation is by no means improved by the following facts: that I seem to be grossly incompetent at all aspects of my job, bar those having to do with fixing the photocopier; that I only eat junk food; that I still haven't found a calendar I'd like for 2004; that I have more split ends than anyone. (It's also somewhat disturbing to know for certain that, no matter how much I'm bound to cringe through every minute of it, I will want to see the Sylvia Plath movie the first chance I get, and I can't even write that off as pure masochism. entirely.) Thirdly, the English language hates me, and I need to decide what classes I'm going to take in the spring.
Finally started reading Tartt's The Little Friend on the train yesterday, or, rather, got caught up reading the review snippets on the back cover of the book. New York Times Book Review, it seems, thought it "a book that precocious young readers pluck from their parents' shelves and devour with surreptitious eagerness, thrilled to discover a writer who seems at once to read their minds and to offer up the sweet-and-sour fruits of exotic, forbidden knowledge." Keywords unnecessarily highlighted by me, because I'm suddenly feeling much more optimistic about the novel. I mean, hi, for better and for worse, I like The Secret History, and how obviously does the quote, when taken out of context, describe that one? When you think of the young readers less as "precocious 12-year-olds" and more as "pretentious high-school kids", or alternately, as me in high-school, when some heavy pseudo-intellectualism mixed with pseudo-decadence (and twincest, mmm, twincest) tasted sweet like candy... Well, yeah, okay, it still does.
(I'm surprised by the curviness of Tartt's prose in The Little Friend, though. I've never read The Secret History in English, so I really have no idea whether this is a new thing or whether I've just not noticed before. Hm?)
... anyway, sleep - sleep would be good right about now. If I keep not sleeping for much longer, I'm going to start wanting to have babies. See? The thought has already crossed my mind, quod erat, etc. Can't focus, must focus, can't focus.
For anyone still wondering about the theme of the piece, my mad two-month depression (as in "self-indulgent mood traditionally called") shows no sign of subsiding, and the situation is by no means improved by the following facts: that I seem to be grossly incompetent at all aspects of my job, bar those having to do with fixing the photocopier; that I only eat junk food; that I still haven't found a calendar I'd like for 2004; that I have more split ends than anyone. (It's also somewhat disturbing to know for certain that, no matter how much I'm bound to cringe through every minute of it, I will want to see the Sylvia Plath movie the first chance I get, and I can't even write that off as pure masochism. entirely.) Thirdly, the English language hates me, and I need to decide what classes I'm going to take in the spring.
Finally started reading Tartt's The Little Friend on the train yesterday, or, rather, got caught up reading the review snippets on the back cover of the book. New York Times Book Review, it seems, thought it "a book that precocious young readers pluck from their parents' shelves and devour with surreptitious eagerness, thrilled to discover a writer who seems at once to read their minds and to offer up the sweet-and-sour fruits of exotic, forbidden knowledge." Keywords unnecessarily highlighted by me, because I'm suddenly feeling much more optimistic about the novel. I mean, hi, for better and for worse, I like The Secret History, and how obviously does the quote, when taken out of context, describe that one? When you think of the young readers less as "precocious 12-year-olds" and more as "pretentious high-school kids", or alternately, as me in high-school, when some heavy pseudo-intellectualism mixed with pseudo-decadence (and twincest, mmm, twincest) tasted sweet like candy... Well, yeah, okay, it still does.
(I'm surprised by the curviness of Tartt's prose in The Little Friend, though. I've never read The Secret History in English, so I really have no idea whether this is a new thing or whether I've just not noticed before. Hm?)
... anyway, sleep - sleep would be good right about now. If I keep not sleeping for much longer, I'm going to start wanting to have babies. See? The thought has already crossed my mind, quod erat, etc. Can't focus, must focus, can't focus.
