Dearest gentle reader,
Since we last spoke I have finished three books and have gotten myself lost in nearly two hundred pages of Anna Karenina, supposedly the most important novel. Ever. This is according to multiple sources, including but not limited to Vladmir Nabokov and Orham Pamuk. With names like that, what isn't to trust? Reading is one of the only meaningful actions in my life; that, and the recent omnnipresence of weaving and giving French lessons. I am sitting at my desk at the moment, this most locus that has become sacred, like a holy place. Sitting at a desk makes me want to sigh in the way I imagine Proust did, and it makes me want to drink too much coffee, and live a life, whatever that means.
I have a test over genetics tomorrow, to which I stick out my tongue and roll my eyes. I made a mistake with this semester, a grave and deep mistake that I am paying for now in my apathy. Perhaps if I put in the slightest effort I can pull B's in my science classes. For the love of all that is good in this world, what on Earth was I thinking? Anthopology et moi, je n'aime pas. Merde.
What I am thinking about Orham Pamuk, Jorge Luis Borges, J.M. Coetzee, Madame Bovary, Anna and Count Vronsky.
Adieu, Bon Nuit, Manger mon merde, etc.