The pleasures...
...of procrastination. I'm serious. I've never felt so guiltless for doing so little. I have an essay to write, on the significance of the Sublime in Romantic writing. I'm paying particular attention to Wordsworth and Coleridge, and Shelley's Frankenstein. But I'm in one of those moods (and when am I not?) wherein I can read and read, cross-reference, and everything, all of the abstract stuff, but putting things into words just seems too exhaustive to even contemplate. I seriously am incapable of beginning the actual essay itself.
I am also reflecting on the fact that I am very erratic in tone, style, mood and rhythm whenever I post on LiveJournal. I read others' blogs and basically, have concluded that I have so many different personalities fighting each other, that I don't actually have one. A personality, I mean.
Oh well.
I am also reflecting on the fact that I am very erratic in tone, style, mood and rhythm whenever I post on LiveJournal. I read others' blogs and basically, have concluded that I have so many different personalities fighting each other, that I don't actually have one. A personality, I mean.
Oh well.