way too many multisyllabic words, which is a sign of less than cogent thought
I joined a gym. It was partially impulsive, partially long intended. I went to a combination tai chi-pilates-yoga class. It did not occur to me until mid-way through that it was kind of like elementary school gym class. The associated memories were unpleasant, but I persisted. And was pleasantly surprised and somewhat incredulous when I actually had muscle soreness the next day. I mention this because I'm thinking that expressing it to all and sundry might actually make me believe it more, because wow was that all so unlike me. But in a shatteringly good way.
I should have been reading other stuff, but on Saturday I started reading Tolstoy on Shakespeare, and then left that off for Orwell on Tolstoy on Shakespeare. And probably the thrill that runs through me on just the linkage of names is sycophantic and deplorable. But try as I might I don't care about that. Unmooring myself from unconsciously internalized norms of admiration doesn't seem like a worthy project. Probably because it's hard. Gah.
Tolstoy was evangelistic in his approach and therefore myopic in his appraisal (he thought Shakespeare was not even an average author, and his enduring popularity a plot by the Germans). This was my tentative conclusion before reading Orwell, and doing so just confirmed it. I am a bit disappointed in myself that a day later, I do not having anything coherent to say about Orwell. Just that his words are delicious glass candy. And this from someone who thought 1984 overhyped and Animal Farm excellent but not genius.
But then probably my underlying fervor for Shakespeare tells the whole story. Whatever he was or wasn't, I cannot but find his words enrapturing.
The curious thing about studying literature is that it is simultaneously self-indulgently cerebral and achingly visceral. It's all in one's head but its source is still the outside world. Mostly the inside of someone else's head in the outside world, but still. And it is silly of me to try to generalize this, when it's really just an attempt to reconcile how I can enjoy it so much when so often it is unconnected to anything but itself. Mmm...blee.
I should have been reading other stuff, but on Saturday I started reading Tolstoy on Shakespeare, and then left that off for Orwell on Tolstoy on Shakespeare. And probably the thrill that runs through me on just the linkage of names is sycophantic and deplorable. But try as I might I don't care about that. Unmooring myself from unconsciously internalized norms of admiration doesn't seem like a worthy project. Probably because it's hard. Gah.
Tolstoy was evangelistic in his approach and therefore myopic in his appraisal (he thought Shakespeare was not even an average author, and his enduring popularity a plot by the Germans). This was my tentative conclusion before reading Orwell, and doing so just confirmed it. I am a bit disappointed in myself that a day later, I do not having anything coherent to say about Orwell. Just that his words are delicious glass candy. And this from someone who thought 1984 overhyped and Animal Farm excellent but not genius.
But then probably my underlying fervor for Shakespeare tells the whole story. Whatever he was or wasn't, I cannot but find his words enrapturing.
The curious thing about studying literature is that it is simultaneously self-indulgently cerebral and achingly visceral. It's all in one's head but its source is still the outside world. Mostly the inside of someone else's head in the outside world, but still. And it is silly of me to try to generalize this, when it's really just an attempt to reconcile how I can enjoy it so much when so often it is unconnected to anything but itself. Mmm...blee.