So we start with Swann’s Way, which is almost impossible to define as being a novel (it seems more like a multifaceted stone representing a single person’s consciousness from different angles, to me… is it one book, or three, or seven? Is it a portfolio? Is it an accordion that’s been stretched all the way out, like some McSweeney’s book arts project?), and To the Lighthouse, which for some mysterious reason seems to be out of stock in every McBookStore in metro Atlanta. I have tons of USDA Grade A Prime Reading to do this semester… and this is the day I spend two freaking hours trying to park. I like class. I love reading. I get off on researching and writing papers. At this point, though, all I want to do is find a soundproof room and lock myself up in it for the semester. In exchange for the occasional bowl of soup, cup of coffee, or shot of tequila, I will slip cogent analyses and evolving poems under the door. No parking, no constant hunting for a quiet place to read. Gimme that old-time, cork-lined room.
Fiction form and theory