tired
spikeylady and ciphergoth were nice enough to take them. The whole thing felt like some kind of decadent '30s Paris thing Brassai would have photographed. I danced with lolliepopp and bathtubgin, but ... I guess I should have asked one of the sailors to dance, but I didn't. Call me shy.But let's talk about Proust. I continue making progress: in fact, I actually crossed a line tonight, finishing Madame Swann at Home. The pleasure I continue to get out of reading this book sits curiously with the article I read today in the New York Times on "How to fake reading great books," in which the author claims, "People now come up to me to describe the cultural wounds they suffered at school. ‘You have to read all of Proust.’ They were traumatized." Good heavens. Is it a time thing? Are they obliged to read lesser works? I'm not sure where exactly the trauma is supposed to come in ...
