Sustained Criticism

I think I'll separate my book and life updates, makes for less of a mess. So you get two entries in one day. Someone's got to be thrilled. Two exams down, two to go. I wrote a messy essay about time as a physical entity in Prufrock, and translated a non-coherent piece about the modern condition. You'd think psychiatrists had a decent grasp on writing, but no, they do not. And I did not particularly enjoy having to piece together meaning because the sentences made no sense.

The first swim of the year was had, at the cottage this weekend. Where we also drank too much, my brother got murdered at Scrabble by yours truly, who also nearly broke her back carrying reference materials, clothes and macbook to finish the translation exam.

To celebrate surviving half the exams, Anette and I went out to a quick dinner. We went to Hansken for their delicious onion soup and wine, but also got complimentary starters – foie gras. I don't particularly like it, Anette hated it. We never did figure out why precisely we got them, perhaps they were about to expire and they had to get rid of them? Then we proceeded to speed over to the cinema to see Polanski's Ghost Writer – mediocre thriller, occasionally clever, terribly cheap ending. And now I'm reading for the two final exams. Postcolonial literature and general literary theory Oh, joy.

Did not read a single page today, did not do much of anything at all. And now I feel utterly blah. Day off, you're doing it wrong. I'm close to chucking all these silly exams out the window, it's not like I will ever use my degree, anyway. Tea is sure to help.

I did do one thing, I finished The New York Trilogy – more Auster, I'm involuntarily binge reading. Post-modern detective stories, in typical Auster meta-fictive mode. The first and the last are definitely the highlights, the middle one feels too much like the first to be interesting. It's interesting enough, but with all the meta, and the speculation about the arbitrary nature of language, it was timed very badly. This is what I try to fill my skull with, from dawn til I throw the book at the wall. The final book, "The Locked Room", is the best of the three (I read them in one volume, I think that's mainly how it's published, currently). But I think they're better read separately; as one volume it's a bit too much. It's very Auster, very noir and post-modern. I suspect that, if I'd read it at any other time, I would have loved it.

Since I last updated, I've been reading unhealthy amounts of literary theory (I've been dreaming about the arbitrary nature of language) and drinking too much.

Fridays are usually a total drag: up at dawn to get to uni in time. Where we suffer through Post.col. class (the teacher: thirties otherwise unspecified, woman, bad stutter – fascinating, it is rare –, tall with midriff baring tops, no teaching experience), have a rushed lunch, squeeze into the lift with lecturers we hate and smile sweetly at, pile into a stuffy room on the 8th floor. Two hours 'basic literary analysis 101', I practice sleeping with open eyes. But this Friday we left halfway through the last class, to check out the market stalls at Grünerløkka. Shoe Lounge, my favourite shoe store, promised discounts, and they usually sell dangly crystal earrings at ridiculous prizes. But no such luck, I think we were early. Ingebjørg and I stayed on downtown to ruin our diets, and Anette headed home to prepare her birthday bash.

I had an outfit crisis, looked horrid in everything, and went for a LBD with enough cleavage to keep everyone's eyes glued there. If in doubt: more cleavage. Met Kristine on the bus, timed to arrive fashionably late. But we were the first to arrive. A new experience for me, I'm never early, rarely on time. I wore the YSL's (caged silver platform sandals) for the first time. We drank too much, ate too much, and Kristine stole Bailey's: 'a goood dash, a gooood dash, woops, it's empty. Shut up, everyone. It wasn't me.' Very stealthily done. Then I made friends with Rebecca's Husky, people left saying they had work in the morning, Maren, Maren's cousin, Anette and I made a short detour downtown to dance. We were deserted by Maren + guest, and decided to call it a night. I proceeded to eat something nasty from 7/11, and make friends with some random guy on the buss. He wanted my number, he got a fake story about an art student called Natalie and a number I pieced together. His idea of a pick-up line was that he had a five-year-old.

Kristine and I are very good together. We joke that we're like an old married couple, and on Friday our act was out of this world. I somehow got tricked into giving a spontaneous speech, and since I was wearing killer heels and had had too much to drink, I got Kristine to stand up with me for support. We clung to each other, I spoke about literature, birthdays and we quoted a passage from The Secret History in tandem, announced as an example of the way our lives ought to be. And what we're missing out on by not going to Oxford. It was all very poetic, Kristine reports she walked through half of Oslo in the cheap heels I dumped on her. Which is quite a feat, considering the heels slide backwards every time you put weight on them.