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02 September 2010 @ 02:58 pm
I am a bear of very few concerns.  
I ran into a friend just now; we're in the same cohort, we've been in the same classes, so he knows something about my tendency to - shall we say? - cling limpet-like to certain texts. He wanted to know what my tutorial was on, since I said I was trying to finish prepping for it. I just laughed; I couldn't help it.

"Shakespeare," he guessed. "Twelfth Night. It's on Twelfth Night, isn't it."

"Actually, it's on Jane Austen and Shakespeare." (And yes, Twelfth Night is on the syllabus.)

"Wow, you've really come a long way in six years!"

"I know! Grad school was such a great investment for me!"


There are moods in which I would feel bad about this tendency of mine, because if I were a real, proper clever person, I would be engaged by all sorts of literature. I spent the first two years of grad school feeling like that most of the time, because while I liked many of the things I was reading (and hated some, too, let's be honest), I wasn't thrilled by any of them but my old loves. But right now I am looking at a photocopied section of Mansfield Park ("we all talk Shakespeare"), and marveling at it, so for now I can't be upset with myself for having the good sense to adore Jane Austen.