Spelt.

As far as college work goes, most of the hols. have been spent immersed in Jane Eyre - or at least, as far as I can immerse myself; having abstained from casual reading for some months.
I've lost the speed, the effortless joy of skimming line after line in comprehension; for classic novels are oft generously bodied by (superbly) long sentences.

The reason why I've been hard pressed to leave this novel for another assignment is, firstly, because it has to be completely read by the time college reopens (my first holiday reading item!), and secondly, simply because it is delightful homework compared to that of other subjects.


It would be contradictory, I suppose, to say that though this homework is pleasant, I have also never slipped off into stupor so many times while reading before. Lack of practice brings me back to where neophytes might stand, unable to fall under the enchantment of words. But I suppose, also, that this post (thus far) is therefore a contradiction in itself; since it has comprised of nothing but words.


They were right;
Lit is taking over my life. Every article I see, every work of words (ads, spoken phrases, MY own writing, etc.) is beginning to come under unconscious scrutiny and review of meaning, the application of micro- and macro-view, the telescopic lens of Literature. I mean, not two days ago, I was taking a drive with Sean and Jaf while John Lennon played; and off the tip of my tongue I asked,

"What's the significance of the lemon tree?"

It still bothers me, slightly.






Fear not, readers (ala Charlotte Bronte), I have not been cloistered at home with that single novel!

Truth is, I've been out every day all last week, thus leaving (yet again) not enough time as deemed sufficient for my work to be completed. But I will (as usual) try.

Today, haircut - errands - dance practice - dinner!



I must run.