There's something endearingly frustrating about Sappho. There is such a vast collection of work on her, so much of it tantalisingly (terrifyingly?) close to my own topic, yet so many critics just don't take the most logical steps onwards from their conclusions. This is not a case of being over-critical, but something like confusion on my part. Is there something inherently wrong with my conclusions, or does everyone else take them as so achingly simple that they can't be bothered to articulate them?
Just a bit of paranoia I suppose...
My best efforts at not throwing all my money at books lasted under strain for exactly four minutes. I left Planet Books with 6 books and less $100 or so. Maybe I can claim it back as uni expenses, but I'm really not that bothered in all honesty. The pressing need for a new bookcase will just have to be put aside for a while longer. In the meantime, I'll continue to build my replica of the Great Wall of China across my bedroom carpet, separating the sleeping and studying sections nicely. I might end up attracting international (familial) aid relief. Alternatively, a declaration of future hostile engagement if I don't clean up my act.
Two new notebooks have been acquired and scribbled in as well. At the moment, it's all rubbish, but with any luck something decent will appear among the wreckage. Both books have desserts on the covers. This might start influencing what kinds of nonsense I write inside them. In fact, that idea might not be a bad one to pursue.
Currently working on a review of [eds.] John Kinsella and Alvin Pang's "Over There" poetry anthology. Very interesting collection. Only problem is that every time I sit down and try to write anything about it, I just end up re-reading it. Fun, but not very productive. Story of life as I know it right now.
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