In other news...well, two readers pointed out that that religious box I constructed was almost certainly not Augustine. Indications point towards Pascal, with a slight hope for Aquinas... If I weren't so lazy, I'd go look it up...ah well.
Today, I have to read and critique a bunch of stories for the new writing group. There's tons else I *should* do, but that's what I need to do. :-) We'll see if anything else gets done. I also, finally, started reading Vikram Seth's _The Golden Gate_ (thanks again, Shmuel), and am having to put it down periodically to recover from intense insecurity pangs. The back cover states that it is a 'novel in verse'. Fine, good, impressive enough -- what they don't state is that it is a novel in sonnets! (which he kindly starts renumbering with each chapter, so I can't simply glance at the end and figure out how many lovely sonnets he put into this thing, which, I suppose, is a blessing) Note that I have managed perhaps three sonnets in my entire history of writing poetry, and I'm not happy with any of them. Argh.
It's amazing how my opinion of my writing fluctuates depending on what I read. Pick up a random novel at the bookstore, even on the bestseller list, and I'm reasonably happy -- they're often junk, trash. I am then writing goddess of the universe. But if I actually sift a little and read the books that my friends recommend, or some of the classics I've missed -- then I am utterly cast down and certain that I will never write three decent words in reasonable sequence.
I think I will finsh my tea, and then go read something that will prop up my limping ego. Out of due consideration for the author's feelings, in case they should ever happen this way, I will not tell you what it is. :-)
Have a lovely Sunday, my dears.