Often, I may not like a piece of fiction or poetry while reading it, but when forced to closely read it and derive its full meaning and the way it deploys those meanings, I am in awe of how much there is to find, and what a good piece of writing it really is. Today's class, with the help of my peers, I developed much more respect than I had whil reading for "Prelude" and discovered that Mansfield's "Bliss" is a bliss of another kind.
The influential modernist writer died young and left quite an impact. For a more full story, see this article.
There is a boy-man who stalks outside our classroom starting at around 6:20 and has even gone so far as to knock and open the door in the middle of our venerable professor teaching to whine that he has class in there and to urge that we get a move on. As scholars, we sometimes become too tolerant and passive and understanding. He made some comment as I took a ten seconds to photograph the notes I made on the board for the elucidation of my points for my classmates in order to make a handout to the effect of "hurry up, we have a test," while we had not yet even begun to carve into his class time. Such minor bullying is unthinkable on such an upstanding campus as our own when no lines have been crossed. The next time that little chuffer comes by huffing and puffing outside our door, harassing our rightful last five minutes of class, I am going to have words with him. I restrained today, because I had no civilized way of saying it immediately available on my tongue and I was suddenly struck by how ill he must be and compassion replaced command and conviction.
But something needs to be said.
In other news, I started To The Lighthouse. Oh, boy. This is going to be fun. It is already showing evidence of being one of the best novels ever written. I am very pleased. I have discovered I need to start new books two weeks ahead of their due date, as one week is not enough to read an entire novel for me. Back to it, before the woolf is at the door.