(no subject)

School over = I actually read things. Still can't get over that paradox.

Read Keats' Odes and Eve of St. Agnes and some other poems, then Clare, then Calvino's Origin of the Birds, which is becoming my favorite story. Calvino wins against both, at least for me and today. I would not have expected that. He also wins with both--he's set down in my books as Romantic. (I'd also neglected Dry River, in Numbers in the Dark, when I made that list a while back--that's a subtle but great nature-gnostic story.)

But wow, Clare and the latter half of Eve of St Agnes... I had an annoying evangelical (from Bob Jones!) instructor when I was finishing my Bachelor's here who taught the poem for the sole purpose of arguing that Keats condoned date rape. Maybe he was annoyed at Keats' palpable disgust with vulgar superstition, his argument via the Beadman and Angela that the Christian consolation's for the old. For the young there's happy art, hot love, fresh fruit, escape. Or could or should be. Quite a poem. How many times have I read it, read the Odes? I like that I forget enough each time.

I liked the music being like a God in pain.