a room of one's own
wow, difficult reading. this is like reading poetry- you really have to pay attention. for example you have to sit (or stand and lurch if you're reading on MUNI) and worry out the significance of the courses of a fictional meal. ordinarily i wouldn't spend a second over an author's description of cornish hens and a fabulous pudding, but Woolf goes on for paragraphs and paragraphs about them and even points out that she's doing it explicitely to the reader, so i think it must be some poetical signifigance of poultry. is the significance only that the men's college had fancy food and the women's plain? i can't believe she'd put so much words in if that were all. i don't think it's for me. (a room of one's own, virgina woolf, stolen from michelle)
posted by good old o at
12:35 PM
2 Comments:
My advice is give in to those urges and Just Don't Like It. Openly, proudly. It's hard to do with such a firmly encanonized writer, but I know that when I gathered my courage and said, first to myself and then to others, "I don't want one single more page of Faulkler in front of me, ever, long as I live," the twinned pleasures of confession and renunciation were a nice buzz. Bugger trying to figure why she's on at such length about the goddamn crockery and such.
By
Anonymous, at 1:16 AM
Faulkner. I meant F-A-U-L-K-N-E-R. The dangers of late night Robitussen-ed typing.
By
indeterminate identity, at 1:17 AM
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