Three days ago I finished the extensive reading on Cleopatra that I wrote about a few posts ago. I am so glad that I decided to read it-- beautifull written, wonderfully delivered, fully realized. It was a fantastic merging of historical fact, archaeological sentiment, literary theory, gender studies, and social commentary.
I say that I am glad that I read this book, because I am often nervous about reading a book on Cleopatra. So much of Cleopatra's historic legacy is lost in a fog of personification, lust, obsession, and a desire for a greatness that was and absolutley wasn't there to begin with.
I find reading to be a terribly rewarding aspect of my own life, something that adds beauty and charm to my day-to-day existence. I cannot help but feel that reading is important, life affirming, essential, something tremendous and meaningful, and something sometimes difficult to attain. Books aren't cheap, and time isn't cheap either. I am feeling bummed out over my semester, because there isn't a whole lot of literature involved in it, and I feel mired in a pit of archaeological doom and gloom. One of my professors is a former forensic anthropologist that delights in the relating of stories about headless torsos, skin sloughage, serial killers, and pirates. I don't know what I was thinking what I signed up for a bunch of technical classes...
I suppose I actually do know what I was thinking, and I can relate the kind of doom and gloom that I felt in the days that led up to the first week of school. I was feeling a real doubt in myself, as well as in the point of reading books. I suppose I felt that my desires and dreams were of little tangible value, and were therefore of no use and should be abandoned. This attitude is one that I often take, and I cannot wait until, like the skin on a corpse 3-7 days into decomposition, can be sloughed off and removed for good. (Isn't that just disgusting??!)
Until next time.