(no subject)

My parents sent me The Shakespeare Wars, one man's condescent into various recent Shakespeare controversies, c. 40% of which he makes up...and as you can see I don't think much of it at all. I hate Journalist-ese, which the author respires exclusively, and there's lengthy and stupidly unfair attacks on Bloom and, for some damn reason, Shelley. Worst is a thing that only happens when a journalist writes a book: the blowing up of absolutely nothing into a chapter, ten nothings per book, each nothing bepomped and circumstanced and poised and symmetrated, with brains racked for puns for section titles. Worst thing of all is that these 'Heare be Signifficance' flourishes, together with the fast pace and rapid dropping of great names from all corners give casual readers an impression that they're finding out real, exciting, important things about the bustling business of reality. Which is the point, and the selling-point. The personal journey angle's the teeth-gratingest, but presumably that's forgivable where the person personablizing is less of a smug idiot. So, so smug. Even his attacks on people I hate are too cheap to tolerate.

I think the only success I've seen in this genre was Janet Malcolm's In the Freud Archives. This one's even sub-Mailer, sub-Wolfe.

They sent it thinking it would be fun, bless them, and because it looks like I'm taking three Shakespeare courses next term, as well as European history from the Renaissance on. Also the required Theory course, which will presumably not mix well. I'm happy about all the Shakespeare. It will be great for my eyes, since overlap takes it down to sixteen plays total, so like 1200 pages, all exciting, all read before. And I read verse much faster than prose, and--like anyone--dialogue fastest of all. God knows I'll be staring at Lacan extracts in bored loathing for about one hour per page, so that's a lifesaver.

These elections get me so skitterish these days. Where did my dram of philosophy go?