(no subject)
It is raining gently, I think, and I have just finished reading Night and Day. I am sure I mentioned starting it many months ago, but then I could not continue with it, for whatever reason. Now it seems to be one the best books, I have read, or perhaps the most suited to my mood at the present moment, or during the past few weeks.
Nothing has really happened, except for a phone call to the Chipmunk, in which he praised my voice, intelligence, sympathy and feminity in descritions which managed to stretch over an hour and half and were not discouraged in the least by my repeated attempts at laughing at him, discouraging him, diverting the conversation, etc.
But now I am too tired to write about how he said the women in his college were sluts because they walked arm in arm with boys and had sex with them. How they had no right to do so until they were married. How it was flesh and corruption, yet never a word against their partners, who were most likely men.
Please ask me to write about Rashid Raza. I must write about him. He is...
Nothing has really happened, except for a phone call to the Chipmunk, in which he praised my voice, intelligence, sympathy and feminity in descritions which managed to stretch over an hour and half and were not discouraged in the least by my repeated attempts at laughing at him, discouraging him, diverting the conversation, etc.
But now I am too tired to write about how he said the women in his college were sluts because they walked arm in arm with boys and had sex with them. How they had no right to do so until they were married. How it was flesh and corruption, yet never a word against their partners, who were most likely men.
Please ask me to write about Rashid Raza. I must write about him. He is...