Feb. 10th, 2009

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I have been trying to read Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer" on and off for the past few weeks and I'm not sure if there's just something I'm not getting or that I haven't been focussed enough for it, but I ... I'm just not into it. It's not that it is bad, it's just that I'm feeling 'meh' about it. Reading it feels forced at this point. I'm not sure what it is about it that has put me off. Maybe it's that I had such high expectations, or maybe it's the style, I'm not sure. It feels somehow inaccessible. I'm not sure how to describe it. To be blunt, it feels as though I'm reading an oddly disjointed and aimless story revolving around an exclusive group/non-group of pretentious writers in Europe who just fuck and write and constantly reflect (coldy) on themselves and on writing in a dull and removed, self-revolving, style that is virtually unrelatable. Even the fucking is emotionless and unappealing. The writing feels elitist, inaccessible, and masturbatory (for the writer rather than the reader) and not in a good way.

I don't know, maybe I'm missing something. I'm probably missing something. Or, maybe I'm on to something.

In unrelated news, this week has been and continues to be busy. I'm spending time with friends, new and old. I'm going out, seeing new things, having fun, getting fresh air. I'm going to a burlesque show on Friday and I have nothing to wear! I'm not spending Friday night in thermal underwear! It is all very, very good. Busy is good.

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lolamatopoeia

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