in which I rightfully reaffirm my dislike for Oliver Twist
I've never been a fan of Dickens. I just don't like novels that are preachy, and from everything I've heard about Dickens--particularly with regard to Oliver Twist--I have always felt that I would not enjoy his work. But of course, in my Victorian class this semester, the very first book on the syllabus is in fact Oliver Twist. I tried to vow to keep an open mind, and over the past two days I plunged through about 120 pages.
And I just can't bring myself to plunge through any more.
It's kind of agonizing to read. I'm not supposed to roll my eyes at the cruelty and injustice of Oliver's misfortunes. But perhaps I am grown too cynical as a Modernist, because I found myself heaving impatient sighs and restfully readjusting my position in my armchair, as if that sort of alteration would make me read any faster. When I realized that I had begun to skim the pages rather than actually read them, I tossed the book onto the couch across from me and appealed to Sparknotes. And that's that. I tried. I really did. Let us pass on.
both necklaces: gifted
socks: Sock Dreams
shoes: gifted, very old
What to do with a weekend so early in the semester? I watched "Adam's Rib" at Zach's apartment, went to the gym, started rereading Mansfield Park for pleasure, got cream tea with Laura at a little restaurant tucked into southern Iowa City, and started making some mix cds for R. Soon, reading for class will take over my life. But... not yet.