Oh beautiful, beautiful, beautiful world!
So much work! So much to do!
[and none of it relevant (relevant? to what?)]
what i thought i loved is not what i thought it was at all. and it is now far, far more wonderful. and difficult!
i love winterson's writing for itself. but now i am very aware of the superficiality of my reading. to really understand, to really scrape the tenderest meanings from each leaf, to really explore the stacked and stacked - solid and teetering - layers of meaning, i must now read Woolf, Eliot, Joyce, Stein. And some others. Where is the time?!
Sexing the Cherry is a reading of "Four Quartets"? Lighthousekeeping requires Woolf?
It's like my whole world just fell apart - but kaleidoscoped - and the broken beauty is more beautiful than the thin wholes I thought I had.