(no subject)
I went to the bookstore today and bought actual books. It's a good thing. I've been having a yen to re-read Jane Eyre so I picked that up along with The Brothers Karamazov and Beloved. I'll put them in the stack and get to them in their turn.
I've been trying to make my way through House of Mirth by Edith Wharton but I keep on getting stopped up because I empathize so strongly with Lily Bart, the female protagonist. Plus, the male protagonist is a prime example of the kind of arrogant jackass for whom I have a distinct weakness and epitomizes everything that both attracts and repels me about those types. I kind of want to give this book to my high school self with a stern admonition to learn from Lily's misfortunes.
But, yes, strong overidentification has distinctly slowed down my progress.
I read The Jungle by Upton Sinclair a couple weeks ago. Actually, I it was over the period where I was really sick with the Plague. It was just as disgusting as one might imagine the tale that revealed the health dangers of meatpacking at the turn of the Twentieth Century would be. It was also Sinclair's love poem to the kind of Socialism that existed during that era. The Gilded Age was just not a good time to be alive for anyone other than the extraordinarily wealthy. I read books like this and then want to bang the Big Lug upside the head with the realities of laissez faire capitalism.
Also, somehow on Sunday I managed to waste three hours of my life reading badfic (not written by anyone on my flist, or f'flist, I promise). It was the kind of fic that I started because I was bored and since it was competently written I didn't realize how truly awful it was until I was done. It had the most egregious Castiel Sue that I've ever seen. Just bad bad bad all around. Though, afterwards I did have some fun de-Sue-ifying the characters in misscam-inspired ways. So that was fun.
Onwards and upwards, I suppose. Chores never do seem to find a way to do themselves. *sighs*
I've been trying to make my way through House of Mirth by Edith Wharton but I keep on getting stopped up because I empathize so strongly with Lily Bart, the female protagonist. Plus, the male protagonist is a prime example of the kind of arrogant jackass for whom I have a distinct weakness and epitomizes everything that both attracts and repels me about those types. I kind of want to give this book to my high school self with a stern admonition to learn from Lily's misfortunes.
But, yes, strong overidentification has distinctly slowed down my progress.
I read The Jungle by Upton Sinclair a couple weeks ago. Actually, I it was over the period where I was really sick with the Plague. It was just as disgusting as one might imagine the tale that revealed the health dangers of meatpacking at the turn of the Twentieth Century would be. It was also Sinclair's love poem to the kind of Socialism that existed during that era. The Gilded Age was just not a good time to be alive for anyone other than the extraordinarily wealthy. I read books like this and then want to bang the Big Lug upside the head with the realities of laissez faire capitalism.
Also, somehow on Sunday I managed to waste three hours of my life reading badfic (not written by anyone on my flist, or f'flist, I promise). It was the kind of fic that I started because I was bored and since it was competently written I didn't realize how truly awful it was until I was done. It had the most egregious Castiel Sue that I've ever seen. Just bad bad bad all around. Though, afterwards I did have some fun de-Sue-ifying the characters in misscam-inspired ways. So that was fun.
Onwards and upwards, I suppose. Chores never do seem to find a way to do themselves. *sighs*