last week...

i decided to spice up my reading list, which typically consists of the writings and rantings of degenerates and madmen. i figured Wuthering Heights would be a nice transition. i remembered enjoying it in college, and i took comfort in knowing that Bronte died when she was barely 30 years old from consumption. but all this is besides the point.

the point is that i have been in something of a funk since Friday the 4th. i initially blamed it on the jingoism, but my melancholy has outlasted the celebration. i now think maybe it's the novel that has me down. so i am faced with two options:

1) continue on to the bitter end, and find what humor i can in picturing Heathcliff not as an "imp of Satan" (p. 43), but rather as a fat, orange cat.

2) abandon this experiment, and return to the familiarity of self-absorbed post-modernity.

time will tell...