Addendum to NYR, 23/b4.

I seem to keep forgetting to remember, or something like that, to post "hey, I'm still alive," type posts while in the midst of large, ugly academic projects that take up my blogging time. So hey, I'm still alive, having failed utterly since the last post to die in a fiery plane crash, OD, or be killed by a disgruntled J.D. Salinger fan. My blogging absence would certainly be more interesting if one of those things had happened, but no. I am in fact just lazy and very, very busy.

I'm off, now, to write a paper on Charlotte Bronte's Villette, which I put myself through in the span of three days (it's 715 pages long) in the hopes of gaining some miraculous insight into Victorian women's fiction. I certainly learned one thing well enough, and that's she wrote about a third of the goddamn thing in French, with the apparent understanding that everyone worth her time to write for would read the same. Charlotte, babe, I take exception. I liked your book, really I did, but I'd have liked it so much better if you'd have kept it in one motherfucking language. That's right, Charlotte: I am an English major, and if your treatise is going to find its way onto my comprehensive exam reading list, you could have at least written it in my native tongue.

Fucking Victorians. I swear.