(no subject)

Auster's The Brooklyn Follies is very vry, and a delight. A man who is depressed about not dying any more, moves to Brooklyn to do nothing. How much more Auster does anything get? Nathan Glass is no longer dying, and finds unexpected raison d'être in companionship with two equally depressed men. I, predictably, loved it. There is something about depressed, middle-aged men and novels I cannot resist.

On a more serious note, this felt very much like Auster light. It is depressing in its own sense, but not as depressing as he can be. It even ends cheerfully!

Exams (or finals to Americans) are hitting home, again, as usual. Everyone else panicking eventually gets to me and I'm already sick of hunching over theory (most notably Said, Spivak, Bhabha, Foucault). In a futile attempt to cheer up I threw on a dress, had champagne, and tottered around in the YSL's. It did not work out. But Saturday was fun. Anette and I had a pre-party ('vors', I really ought to introduce the idea of 'vors' once and for all, and just refer back) here, and attended a house-warming party fashionably late. We plotted how to grab titled, beautiful British men over red wine. Someone compared me to Susan in the Disney version of Narnia, a second person picked up on it, people agreed. Riiight. I blame the wine and the make-up. Another party full of students, which mean you introduce yourself to people by 'Alexandra, English language and literature, more or less. You?'

(no subject)

Auster's The Brooklyn Follies is very vry, and a delight. A man who is depressed about not dying any more, moves to Brooklyn to do nothing. How much more Auster does anything get? Nathan Glass is no longer dying, and finds unexpected raison d'être in companionship with two equally depressed men. I, predictably, loved it. There is something about depressed, middle-aged men and novels I cannot resist.

On a more serious note, this felt very much like Auster light. It is depressing in its own sense, but not as depressing as he can be. It even ends cheerfully!

Exams (or finals to Americans) are hitting home, again, as usual. Everyone else panicking eventually gets to me and I'm already sick of hunching over theory (most notably Said, Spivak, Bhabha, Foucault). In a futile attempt to cheer up I threw on a dress, had champagne, and tottered around in the YSL's. It did not work out. But Saturday was fun. Anette and I had a pre-party ('vors', I really ought to introduce the idea of 'vors' once and for all, and just refer back) here, and attended a house-warming party fashionably late. We plotted how to grab titled, beautiful British men over red wine. Someone compared me to Susan in the Disney version of Narnia, a second person picked up on it, people agreed. Riiight. I blame the wine and the make-up. Another party full of students, which mean you introduce yourself to people by 'Alexandra, English language and literature, more or less. You?'