Other news -- well, progressing through Don Quixote, mostly. Haven't accomplished much of anything else. My cold made me want to coddle myself yesterday. I still have the cold today, but I no longer have time to coddle myself. Or rather, I need to choose types of coddling that won't interfere with working. Sadly, that would normally involve lots of yummy foodstuffs, and I promised my mom yesterday that I would try hard to lose five pounds by Christmas (because we're going up to Canada for a wedding thingie where we'll see lots of relatives we haven't seen in forever and I also agreed to wear a sari, eep). I think I actually did gain a pound with all the Thanksgiving stuff (and Kevin keeps making yummy desserts, for no good reason -- apple tarts and such, just loaded with butter and sugar and oh so good -- I need to make him stop doing that), so the goal is actually six pounds. Six pounds in three weeks is eminently do-able, especially if I also exercise. (Sit-ups play a crucial role in wearing saris, due to all the exposed tummy stuff.) The question is...will I actually do it? How much willpower do I have, especially when I'm a) sick and b) on deadline (both of which incline me to be indulgent with myself)? The answer to come soon.
I'm not sure what I think about this book. I thought I'd read it before, but definitely not -- probably some kids' version. The actual is several hundred pages long. It's entirely satire so far, and that's okay so far as it goes -- I'm all good with poking fun at notions of chivalry and such. But poor Don Quixote is just getting pounded here, page after page after page, and I'm feeling really bad for him. If Cervantes doesn't add some compassion at some point, I'm afraid I'm going to have to agree with Nabokov that the author is just being a petty, sadistic bastard. For several hundred pages. Okay, Nabokov didn't say it in quite those words, but he didn't approve of this book.
I left Don Quixote mad in the woods (he's actually mad, but he's also now pretending to be mad, because that's what knights do when spurned by their ladies -- see Lancelot, etc). And poor Sancho Villa has forgotten the love letter he was supposed to take to the beauteous Dulcinea (actually a robust farm-wench). I think he's going to get in some more trouble soon. I'd best get back to them.