imagoldfish

I was just reading the NYTimes article about Donald Rumsfeld's speech yesterday - which, incidentally, makes it seem as though he's finally gone off the deep end - and suddenly remembered a snippet of my dream from last night. I was talking to somebody who was saying that Rumsfeld is an asshole, and I told him that my parents met him and he's actually a really nice guy, despite his offensive views. Weird.

Having finished The Doll, by Boleslaw Prus, I decided that I ought to read some more theory before I continue reading the actual literature for my exams. I open Lukacs' Theory of the Novel, and read:

Happy are those ages when the starry sky is the map of all possible paths - ages whose paths are illuminated by the light of the stars. Everything in such ages is new and yet familiar, full of adventure and yet their own. The world is wide and yet it is like a home, for the fire that burns in the soul is of the same essential nature as the stars; the world and the self, the light and the fire, are sharply distinct, yet they never become permanent strangers to one another, for fire is the soul of light and all fire clothes itself in light.

what. the. fuck.

Ima give Bakhtin a try instead.