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Oslo felt a bit like the South of France yesterday, hot, humid and scorchingly windless. Today we have heavy, blue, grey and purple thunderclouds. But no thunder yet. I wish it would rain properly, it fits my mood as I near the end of this damnable Prufrock essay. It's not really bad, I'm just thoroughly sick of the damn thing. The structure isn't there, and I need to come up with some clever way to make everyone realise that 'duh, of course time is a physical entity in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock". Hoping a few well-placed quotes will do the trick. If not I'll whip up some insane conclusion with grand words.
Did I say that I got the perfect essay task for the Western Lit. exam? Analyze Waiting for Godot (we discussed it so thoroughly we became Vladimir and Estragon), Heart of Darkness (I would just do an insane narratological and postcolonial analysis) or "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock". Three modernists, and I get to do what I want with them. I'm discussing time in "Prufrock", which is surprisingly fun.
Did I say that I got the perfect essay task for the Western Lit. exam? Analyze Waiting for Godot (we discussed it so thoroughly we became Vladimir and Estragon), Heart of Darkness (I would just do an insane narratological and postcolonial analysis) or "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock". Three modernists, and I get to do what I want with them. I'm discussing time in "Prufrock", which is surprisingly fun.
