“It is possible of course that there are no more real men here, on this ball of half-truths, the earth. That would be a disappointment. One would have to content oneself with the subtle falsity of color films of unhappy love affairs, made in France, with a Mozart score. That would be difficult.”

i’m a huge mess, but sometimes i kind of enjoy it.

and i’m going to finish portrait of the artist as a young man, because i love and hate stephen dedalus too much to let his story remain disjointed in my mind. it didn’t immediately suck me in like nightwood did, but i caught fleeting glimpses of what i loved so much about djuna barnes, and after being expounded upon in my seminar, i’m too curious to leave it at that.

three hours though, man, that’s a long freaking class.

i’m pleased because i found the english translation of a huge text i thought i’d have to struggle through in french for class thursday. is it wrong? is it wrong? whatever, is what i reply. it makes my life a little easier. school is such a disheartening bother. i’ll climb and shimmy through all the loopholes i can find.


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