i have this false memory of reading
the house of mirth. i have never read any edith wharton, although i have this general idea that her novels are full of
bleak which is something that could interest me right now. my false memory involves reading it all in one sitting, sophomore year at kenyon, curled up in my closet.
remember my closet set-up: i kept half my clothes on my bed that winter, so i could have more room to sit in my closet. i kept most of my blankets on the floor, & i had a little gooseneck lamp clipped to the hanging-bar in there, so that i could sit & read. in there i could sit still.
my desk, right now, which was my father's when i was growing up, has this very large compartment, almost like a cupboard. i have false memories of hiding in this compartment as a child. i am only pretty sure they are false. they convince me. i'd like to clear out all the art supplies & letters, & climb in now. if my spine would fit.
i'd just really like to curl up now. maybe read the age of innocence (i don't even own the house of mirth, i just realized on looking at my shelves). rig up the smallest space i have with an electric light & a great pile of blankets. there is no smallest space here. the ceilings are eleven feet high.
meanwhile it feels like � whose novel? is there someone who writes novels with girls living in cold houses in the grey of nearly-winter, taking care of their invalid lovers, & (in the words of emmylou harris, which rise into my mind at the strangest times) a-weepin' & a-pinin' for love? it's as static as chekhov only not like him at all.
i'd like to make hot chocolate but the soymilk has all been had.
suddenly jojo is rapping on the back window, at the deck. it's cold outside. i can't leave him there. i'll go.
it's not as melodramatic as i make it sound. when i let jojo in he will tell me if i should read edith wharton. i bet he will tell me to read henry james instead.
