sick
Ugh. I’m sick. I felt cruddy all day at work and had all kinds of odd food cravings. Like for the donuts that were just sitting there, then the cheddar popcorn suffering the same plight, then my salad and then I even ate some of those Instant Sodium / Chicken-like-substance soup packets. So much artificial color . . .
In addition to being sick, I’ve just started reading Camus’ “The Plague.” I thought about reading it in French but decided that if I tried it I’d probably just struggle for a while before getting distracted by something easier. (grrr. Bad me.) I’m left wondering if the distinctive writing style and constructions are in fact Camus’ or the translator’s or some odd amagam of the two. Sometimes I can tell exactly which word Camus would have used because its’ a generic construct in French we don’t have in English, like saying, “Admetons . . .”
Nothing to put your nasty cold into prospective like a graphic description of a city ravaged by the Bubonic plauge. I've been wanting to read this book since Arthur read it, but I'm very glad my mother protested it wasn't appropriate reading for a 12 year old. It's rather dark.
Gwyn has gone to her parents for dinner and I stayed in, bemoaning the lack of tasty groceries. As it turned out, there was a can of condensed chicken stock in the cupboard, so a few noodles, carrots and defrosted chicken later: voila! Chicken in a pot! Yum. And not suspiciously yellow. . . .
My self-pity is over for now. I’ll probably post more soon. After all, I’m sick at home on a Friday night . . .
In addition to being sick, I’ve just started reading Camus’ “The Plague.” I thought about reading it in French but decided that if I tried it I’d probably just struggle for a while before getting distracted by something easier. (grrr. Bad me.) I’m left wondering if the distinctive writing style and constructions are in fact Camus’ or the translator’s or some odd amagam of the two. Sometimes I can tell exactly which word Camus would have used because its’ a generic construct in French we don’t have in English, like saying, “Admetons . . .”
Nothing to put your nasty cold into prospective like a graphic description of a city ravaged by the Bubonic plauge. I've been wanting to read this book since Arthur read it, but I'm very glad my mother protested it wasn't appropriate reading for a 12 year old. It's rather dark.
Gwyn has gone to her parents for dinner and I stayed in, bemoaning the lack of tasty groceries. As it turned out, there was a can of condensed chicken stock in the cupboard, so a few noodles, carrots and defrosted chicken later: voila! Chicken in a pot! Yum. And not suspiciously yellow. . . .
My self-pity is over for now. I’ll probably post more soon. After all, I’m sick at home on a Friday night . . .