Sustained Criticism

Writing a paper on Shakespeare's Julius Caesar and how people can "construe things after their own fashion" is not my idea of a good time. Why did I get stuck with this basic idiocy? (Don't remind me that I'm re-taking this because I want an A, totally irrelevant.) I, and everyone else, knows that everything is relevant. And that rhetoric is a very powerful tool.

I'd, to be honest, much rather debate in depth the uses of free indirect discourse. Or read theory (though I'm not sure I care much for anything post-New Criticism).

But, I've been slightly productive and come to a conclusion: Post-modernism did not exist before the internet. What came before was a continuation of modernism, and what we have now is really a development of that. In other words we lack an anti-thesis to modernism. It's modernism + internet. It is really just the modernist angst, distrust and "fragmentarism" taken one step further. If we are to speak of something called post-modernism it must be literature post-internet. The number of published writers, the lack of "prophetic theorists" leaves us with no serious movements to speak of: where did the real experimentalists go?

Though Bolano makes it all ok. His free indirect discourse makes the world a better place.



Disclaimer: this is not supposed to make sense. It is not coherent, and severely lacks cohesion, I'm sure. It's what too much dinner does to you.

NB, I'm sure I've written about my dislike for Paris, non? This blog wanted me to go back, and wallow in it. I'm beginning to suspect there is something about Paris I'm not getting. The idea of sharing a plate of oysters is decadently appealing. Perhaps I can ease into it with Montpellier this summer?

I need to write something, and since Paris is still all I can think of, I think I'll have to try typing something about just that. My English suffers the toll lack of sleep takes on me, but one's got to work with what one has.

I've lived with two strangers a short week, and I'll most probably never see them again. It has been a most peculiar experience, and honey now thoroughly sickens me. I've been fascinated by cielings (must be derived from the French "ciel", no?), bored on metro trips and I've had fierce night-time discussions. However much it damages my lovely reputation as arrogant realist, it was a pretty nice trip.

Musée d'Orsy on Tuesday, Versailles on Wedensday, Louvre on Thursday and "Théâtre de la Huchette" on Friday. Versailles was breath-taking, Louvre fascinating, and everything intent on murdering my feet.

Four girls lived in a terribly fashionable part of Paris, and were obnoxiously happy about that pre our leaving. Two girls - hopeless drama-queens, big-haired, thin-legged, struggling and pathetic - got thrown out. One ended up in a Hospital, drunk out of her mind, claiming to have been drugged, but obviously lacking nothing but self-control.

School was ok, it was a lot more fun than the habitual French class. The poor teachers must have a terrible impression of Norwegian teenagers. And rightly so, half the class, if not more, appeared hung over every day.

French breakfast never ceases to amaze me: a piece of toast, very sweet cereal, a croissant or a cup of coffee is in no way sufficient for me. I could, of course, get used to it, but it would take time, and I'm no patient person. I want my regular, small meals.

Théâtre de l'absurde, "La Leçon" spesificly, at "Théâtre de la Huchette" seemed terribly pointless; what is theatre without interaction? While the idea of communication on a level beyond conventional speach is good, the notion of not addressing the audience is lunacy. Poetic imagery is wonderful, but it cannot touch people the way traditional theatre does.

I by far prefer London of the two, both for atmosphere and shopping - it is not as beautiful, architectually speaking, but it is pleasing in other ways; the streets are not as huge, nor majestic or breath-taking, but small, quirky and quite a probable site for tiny book-shops and cafés. London feels more intimate and inviting. I feel at home in London, from the moment I set foot there, I am at home. Paris lacks that feeling.

And I've had another scary encounter with a teacher, this time Bodil, on the metro. We ended up talking about mine and Katrine's position in class, and her sentiments towards certain people.

My shopping was pathetic - I only have memories of what I regret not buying. The only remotely serious shopping I did was at home, tax-free, and fed my Shiseido obsession. Why Shiseido? It's always aesthetically pleasing and it works. And I like my obsessions.

Oh, and we ended up on "Orly" Airport. Rly? Yrly, we did.

It is, however chaotic this turned out, good to be back home. Now, off to sleep.