Sorry about the mess; the site was off the air for a wee bit and I was too busy wending along the path of life. It’s not quite clear to me what this is per se for everything has taken this chiaroscuro quality; it should become clear enough in time.
In the last 65 days, I’ve managed to read 4 works! Instantly, I was amazed at this incredible accomplishment by my sterile self! Then I grounded myself, the ecstasy vanished upon realizing that it was absolutely nothing when compared to that other marvelous feat, i.e., reading all of Proust’s magnus opus in two months and a week. Yes, I read all of it! Yes! I read it! * begins to rave * In other words, the reading list has been updated.
I realize that I don’t ever really discuss the books that I read; they are for my enjoyment only I suppose …. er … ehem … ehem … er….!
But I will say this, I absolutely adored * swoons * the last 50 or so pages of Crime and Punishment. It revived something in me, something long dead. It was if the miracle of Lazarus was manifesting itself in me. I joke not. I even began to fancy … oh dare I say. Let’s just say that I had this odd sensation that the resurrection, the change that in effect takes hold of … as we are told by the narrator, is taking hold in me. The ending is perfect! I couldn’t have asked nothing better! I couldn’t have dreamnt of something more fanciful! Ah I am raving about this ending; it is like the ending in Maurice but more profound; it is beyond my words. * raves *
I love Dostoevsky; he’s a genius! A genius! If you know anything about me … you’d understand why I love him. It is a mordant love! It is twisted. It is nothing like my love for Nietzsche, for this one is of a purer, saner kind. But my love for Dostoevsky is morbid.
I want to read Latin authors. Yet, I am scared (no joke). One of the books that I’ve begun to read to-day has reinspired me on this crazy idea to tackle 4 works … to deal with the ‘big picture’ – I’ll show the Dons that I am not only detail-oriented * pouts * but I am also able to see the big picture. Chuch! Hah! I’ve also thought of adding another book to this bacchic treatise on Thought.
But concerning the Latin authors, I can always write a treatise on Tacitus … one of my friends, who by the way plans to recruit me for paramilitary activities once I have managed to kill the fussy wussy essence I have, has inspired me to contemplate Tacitus. This, of course would require rereading Tacitus’ Histories * loved it * and his Germania and of course, it would be a blatant return to my filthy habit of writing on historical works and philsophizing about them. Oy!
- at the point of delirium *
I am horribly enamored with the name Caligula. How pastiche! I just love it! Love it! I can’t help but think that this most deranged Roman emperor was freaking adorably cute as a child; I imagine him walking around the army camp in his little boots! Ah, my gad! * teary-eyed * surrounded by soldiers … those brave men that brought civilization to the barbarians, though in the end, barbarians in their own right.
Oh I don’t know what’s wrong with me … I’m in such a strange mood as I write this! Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I am reading a lot lately. Or perhaps it has to do with the fact that I am going insane from the solitude and the Lucretian realization! I’ve even thought of partaking in Augustinian proclivities. No, I don’t mean stealing pears! Hah! To bed! Onward!