and weighs the fates of the champions. Just as Hector, beloved of Zeus, was fated to die, so must I write this evening. Fate is fate, regardless of desire. I have no desire to write, but fate does not care. (Neither does Zeus.) I will battle the wind to reach my home, pull on my heroine pants, make a big pot of tea, and continue writing.
I hope I don't have to be either Hector or Achilles. Hector never gets to finish the dissertation; Achilles never gets a job afterwards. Doom either way. I have to figure out how to be Aeneas.
I wonder what my metaphors will be when I move on to Middlemarch.
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