It's time to catch up on things. First, a short (HA) rant.
Even my teacher said she doesn't like it very much. What the hell, guys? Everyone keeps going on about how they don't like the characters and about how Clarissa is so superficial that they really just don't like her, and then go on to add that they don't like Woolf's style. Admittedly, these are all subjective things, and each of these individuals is quite entitled to his or her opinion. And I am entitled to my opinion.
MY OPINION IS THAT YOU'RE ALL FUCKING IDIOTS.
I'm not actually that mad about it; it just sounds good. Largely, I am exasperated.
When we had to turn in questions last Monday, at which point I hadn't yet read the book, I made up some English BS-style stuff relating to what the professor had discussed and coasted through. Today she picked up one and was like, "I didn't get any other questions like this, and I'm kind of curious what you all think: 'I really despise this book. I've tried to like it, but I can't, and I'm wondering whether anyone else hates it quite as vehemently.'"
So my teacher goes on to say, "I'm not much of a Woolf fan, either." She railed on Clarissa's superficiality earlier, which led me to believe that I'd hate the character with the flaming passion of a thousand fiery
I raised my hand, almost didn't get called on, and then said, "I disagree. I really liked this book. I really liked a lot of the characters, and I really liked how Woolf would just say things about people and life in such a way that just makes you go, 'I can't believe I've never thought of that.' Admittedly, I'm a sucker for long, complicated sentences, but..."
She didn't shrug it off or anything, but I don't think too many people in that room agreed with me.
Which is just plain stupid, as far as I'm concerned. Even if you don't love it, you can respect it -- like I managed to, albeit highly grudgingly, respect James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Two-hundred page ego trip, but Joyce implemented a lot of innovations to the modern novel, and I respect that, especially given that I write modern novels. (Also, "Araby" by Joyce was surprisingly good; I thought I was going to hate it after Portrait and then... didn't.)
Show Woolf some love, even if you don't love the damn book, guys.
In lecture the other day, my professor was talking about Septimus's suicide (she doesn't know how to do the plural, either, which kind of makes ME want to die), and she remarked, "You all probably know this, but Woolf actually killed herself." And I was like, *EYE WIDEN*. That stuff was poignant enough to begin with, and that she actually felt that... Yeah, Woolf was bipolar, apparently. Stunning stuff. Inspiring, a little. And terrifying. The professor read off her suicide note today. She was tired of being a burden.
When it comes down to it, I really just can't even bring myself to understand how you couldn't appreciate Mrs. D one way or another. I flagged the damn thing with eleven Post-Its just to mark passages that I thought were amazing, not because they had any potential essay value or anything. Just because they struck me, hard.
So I'll leave you with one, and you can decide.
One might fancy that day, the London day, was just beginning. Like a woman who had slipped off her print dress and white apron to array herself in blue and pearls, the day changed, put off stuff, took gauze, changed to evening, and with the same sigh of exhilaration that a woman breathes, tumbling petticoats to the floor, it too shed dust, heat, coulour; the traffic thinned; motor cars, tinkling, darting, succeeded the lumber of vans; and here and there among the thick foliage of the squares an intense light hung. I resign, the evening seemed to say, as it paled and faded above the the battlements and prominences, moulded, pointed, of hotel, flat, and block of shops, I fade, she was beginning, I disappear, but London would have none of it, and it rushed her bayonets into the sky, pinioned her, constrained her to partnership in revelry.
How can you hate that?
Now it's time for an update on the epicness that was Saturday night.
We went and got frozen yogurt to kill some time and get some Awesome Calories (TM) and took it back to the courtyard of my dorm to eat it. On the way, this being about eleven-thirty, we were subjected to some intense profundity from the girls walking behind us, as one of them stated calmly the immortal words...
"I want a fucking hot dog or sex."
We laughed. At her. Not with her.
Later, when the froyo had almost entirely disappeared down our hungry gullets, I remarked, about equally immortally, "Well, that went fast. We're pigs. But the good kind. Not like men."
Truer words nevah spoken, mah dears.
Anyway, then we walked to the party, hesitated, unsure which little section of the complex it was, waited until we saw someone I recognized from the troupe (such as it was...), and then wandered in. There was blaring techno music and... not much else. So we sat down and kind of chilled for a while, because I wanted to stay long enough to see the people from my cast and prove that I'd actually showed up.
Two of them showed before we got bored as HELL and ditched it to go get pizza. We actually ran into my director on the way out, and I lied and told him we might come back if we couldn't find anything to do... I think he was already a bit drunk, and probably would have taken my word for it anyway, because he is TEH KEWL GUY. Love that kid. :D
Anyway, we stayed at the party for about an hour, and the only reason we lasted that long watching people drink and talk and talk about drinking (and drink about talking?) was because I drew pictures. You should keep a few things in mind: (a) that I suck at drawing in the first place; (b) that I've been sucking more than usual lately; (c) that I sketched out these magnum opuses (opi?) while sitting on an extremely low, quicksand-ish couch, using the back of my purse as a hard surface. Slack-cutting appreciated. :D
First of all, here are Matt and Brian (and some girl...) at a party, because Matt and Brian are the shit f'sho.
Brian's like "BACK OFF, BITCH; HE'S MINE."
Then I decided to depict one of the very moving scenes from "The Notebook." (See yesterday for the full rant on that particular pinnacle of artistic endeavor.)
Allie is supposed to be wearing a towel and stilettos because she is a
Anyone else notice that drudge work at a lumberyard does not train one for carpentry?
Then I obviously had to do Brokeback Mountain. SPOILERS LIKE WHOA, by the way. It gives us closure, Precious.
Then some girl was yelling about Beetlejuice. Exactly like this. For no apparent reason other than the usual outstanding drunkenness.
Gold star, whoever you are. You were fun to mock.
(This and the next one are kind of screwy because they were sort of on the edge of my scanner, so... mea culpa.)
Here's me and eltea and my approximation of our thoughts. The guy was some dude named Dan who sat down next to me twice and both times was like, "So you go here?... How old are you?... Yeah, I'm way older than that... I have to pay attention to this stuff."
I thought so.
And to conclude, I decided to convey how Aeratre and Artifex would feel at such a social gathering as this one. As you can see, Aeratre is pretending that he is not unbearably awkward and highly-misplaced, and Artifex... is unbearably awkward and highly-misplaced.
The pizza was really good, in case you were wondering. And everyone else was hungover the next day. REALLY hungover.