Reading “My Life in France” while vacationing at the beach. Ooh, it makes me hungry. But then I remember that all sustenance, sole meuniere or otherwise, is on the other side of a wide plane of burning, sliding, terrible sand, which I really can’t stand to trek across more than twice in one day.
Just finished White Oleander by Janet Fitch. Terrifying and dark, honestly reflects the darkness of a human soul corrupt by nature and convicted by nurture.
Found a $2 copy of Raymond Carver’s Cathedral at at Half Price Books today. Was there ever a better writer of short stories? I think not.
Of particular mention is “A Small, Good Thing,” which I believe is my favorite short story of all time.
a short story. Now, the day is over, and I have no idea if I have anything to show for it. Writing, why must you be like that?
When we were in Paris this summer, we ate dinner at Le Deux Magots. I didn’t realize it at the time, but Les Deux Magots used to be a favorite haunt of Ernest Hemingway, Albert Camus, and Pablo Picasso. Well, then.
Totally unrelated to literature.
I can’t wait to marry this man. (Who is also an English major. Does that count?)
wouldn’t it be nice to just have endless hours to write and write and write every day? No buzzing phones or dinging email notifications to draw me from my prose?
And then I think, I wonder what would come out, and if I would ever like it.
The Eagle and Child pub for dinner: the old haunt of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien.