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Feb. 9th, 2005 01:39 pmPH3@R 7H3 L173R@RY L337N3SS, baby.
I packed up most of my books today, the ones I won't need between now and May. The upside of this is that I've whittled my library down to three small packing boxes. They represent the careful distillation of a much larger and less discriminating collection; they are the finest books I've encountered in the twenty-three years I've been able to read. :D
They include everything from Ed Emberley's Big Orange Drawing Book to The Complete Works of Tacitus*. Rex Stout, Dorothy Sayers, John Steinbeck, Terry Pratchett, Bernard Shaw, and a handful of books on religion and classical history compose much of it.
* He had Annals. Hur hur hur.
The downside is that I had a lot of unread books on the shelves, so my to-read pile, which I had been carefully whittling away, just jumped up to larger than it had been when I started. It isn't my fault -- Lucky's mum gave me two full Renault cycles (Theseus and Alexander, some of which I've read) plus The Mask of Apollo.
I have a very difficult time thinking about Lucky's octogenarian, southern-Baptist mum reading the big book of gay sex that is The Persian Boy.
At the moment I'm torn over which book to read next: Merton's The Seven Storey Mountain or Calvino's The Road to San Giovanni. Though I'm tempted to pick From the Mixed Up Files Of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler just because of the sheer thinkyness of the last few books I've read. A little YA infusion might be a relief, and of the two YA novels I have, that one looks less thinky.
Chapter one of the thesis is in for advisor-beta, chapter two is revised except for one or two major research points I have to look up, chapter three is outlined, and I give up on chapter four for now since basically the second half of my thesis is now totally different.
I feel vaguely accomplished without actually having done a whole hell of a lot.
I packed up most of my books today, the ones I won't need between now and May. The upside of this is that I've whittled my library down to three small packing boxes. They represent the careful distillation of a much larger and less discriminating collection; they are the finest books I've encountered in the twenty-three years I've been able to read. :D
They include everything from Ed Emberley's Big Orange Drawing Book to The Complete Works of Tacitus*. Rex Stout, Dorothy Sayers, John Steinbeck, Terry Pratchett, Bernard Shaw, and a handful of books on religion and classical history compose much of it.
* He had Annals. Hur hur hur.
The downside is that I had a lot of unread books on the shelves, so my to-read pile, which I had been carefully whittling away, just jumped up to larger than it had been when I started. It isn't my fault -- Lucky's mum gave me two full Renault cycles (Theseus and Alexander, some of which I've read) plus The Mask of Apollo.
I have a very difficult time thinking about Lucky's octogenarian, southern-Baptist mum reading the big book of gay sex that is The Persian Boy.
At the moment I'm torn over which book to read next: Merton's The Seven Storey Mountain or Calvino's The Road to San Giovanni. Though I'm tempted to pick From the Mixed Up Files Of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler just because of the sheer thinkyness of the last few books I've read. A little YA infusion might be a relief, and of the two YA novels I have, that one looks less thinky.
Chapter one of the thesis is in for advisor-beta, chapter two is revised except for one or two major research points I have to look up, chapter three is outlined, and I give up on chapter four for now since basically the second half of my thesis is now totally different.
I feel vaguely accomplished without actually having done a whole hell of a lot.
